GEORGE-MONCK BERKELEY, Eſquire, LL.B. and F.S.S.A. was the eldeſt, and, during the laſt eighteen years of his life, the only child of the Reverend GEORGE BERKELEY, LL.D. Prebendary of Canterbury (ſon of George Lord Biſhop of Cloyne by Anne eldeſt daughter of the Right Honourable John Forſter, Speaker of the Houſe of Commons in Ireland) and Eliza eldeſt daughter of the Reverend Henry Frinſham, M.A. (by Eliza youngeſt daugh⯑ter and co-heireſs of Francis Cherry, Eſquire, of Shotteſbrook Houſe in the county of Berks^*).

[xx] Mr. Berkeley was born at Bray, in the county of Berks, on Tueſday, February 8, 1763, at half paſt two in the morning.

It is frequently ſaid by Biographers, that nothing re⯑markable occurred during childhood. Of Mr. Berkeley this cannot be aſſerted; for, throughout childhood, youth, man⯑hood, and till within a very few months of his death, the hair-breadth eſcapes of loſing life were almoſt innumera⯑ble; an all-gracious Providence conſtantly interpoſing, ſome⯑times very remarkably, to reſcue him from death, until he was enabled, by free Sovereign Grace, through Redeeming Mercy, to meet that King of Terrors with joy; for he died triumphing in Chriſt.

A little before the birth of Mr. Berkeley, Dr. Cadogan's "Eſſay on the Nurſing of Children" made its appearance, when the depoſiting children in cradles was exploded; ac⯑cordingly a large eaſy chair during the day was appropriated to his uſe. When he was about ſix weeks old, a perſon going into the nurſery in the duſk, before the ſervant had lighted candles, ſat down on this chair; but providentially did not ſit quite to the back, it being very deep. She ſoon [xxi] felt ſomething move; the infant, finding itſelf incommoded, began to ſtruggle with its arms and legs. Mr. Berkeley, from his birth, ſhewed the very uncommon ſtrength of limbs, which, as he grew up, increaſed; and he was eſteemed the ſtrongeſt man in England, by thoſe who were judges. Some of his intimate friends have owed their lives, in a tumultuous crowd, to the ſtrength of his arm, joined to his true reſolute cool courage, where he did not wiſh to have recourſe to his ſword. Mr. Berkeley's ſtrength was muſcular, as his bones were remarkably ſmall; his wriſt, ſome time before his death, meaſuring little more than ſix inches.

When he was about three months old, his mother was attacked by ſo deſperate an ague, that it was ſuppoſed ano⯑ther fit muſt have proved fatal to her; yet ſo unwilling was ſhe, that her darling, her idol (alas) from his cradle to his coffin, ſhould be indebted for his early nouriſhment to any but herſelf, that ſhe reſolved to attempt the bringing him up by hand; but he had very nearly loſt his life in the at⯑tempt, before a nurſe could be procured.

At a very early period of his life he began to ſhew ſigns of that uncommon brilliancy of parts, quickneſs of wit, and ſoundneſs of judgement, which ſo remarkably diſtinguiſhed him through life, even to its lateſt period. To relate wit⯑ticiſms of a child to any but a fond parent would be ridicu⯑lous; [xxii] one or two inſtances, it is hoped, may, however, be pardoned. When about three years old, he was ſearching the houſe for his mother, whom from his earlieſt infan⯑cy, he paſſionately loved. Unable to find her, he walked from room to room, calling her. A lady, who was ſtaying in the family, ſaid, ‘"My dear child, what a bleating thou doſt make!"’ He inſtantly turned round, and ſaid, ‘"To be ſure I do, for I am bleating for my Dam."’ When he was little more than three years and a half old, he was di⯑verting himſelf in the garden. A beggar came to the gate, and, ſeeing the hall doors and windows all open, and no one in ſight, ſaid, ‘"My pretty little Maſter, what are you doing here alone?"’ He replied, ‘"I am watering ſome flowers for the gardener."’ The old fox ſaid, ‘"I think I muſt come in and help you;"’ on which Mr. Berkeley flew to the gate, and bolted it, ſaying, ‘"No, I thank you, I can do it very well by myſelf."’ On his maid's aſking him why he bolted the gate, he replied, ‘"Why, if he had got into the houſe now that the men are out with the coach, perhaps the maids and I could not have got him out again."’

Generoſity and compaſſion are indeed very rarely found until inſtilled into the breaſts of very young children: in Mr. Berkeley they were certainly indigenous. When a child in arms, if he was aſked to give a piece of cake out of his hand, he would inſtantly break off three-fourths of it, [xxiii] reſerving only a very ſmall piece for himſelf, and be un⯑happy if the petitioner did not take and eat it. On re⯑ceiving his orange after dinner, when it was peeled, he would retire to the window ahd carefully ſeparate the quills, then go out into the ſervants' hall, and force one upon every ſervant, eight in number. One evening his mother obſerving that he kept his left hand cloſed, enquired whe⯑ther he had hurt it; the ſervant replied, that he had not, but that he had kept ſince dinner, full four hours, a quill of his orange to give to the coachman, who had been ſent to Windſor on a meſſage, and that no promiſes of care could prevail on Maſter Berkeley to entruſt her with it, adding, that he aſſured her, ‘"it would comfort him after his ride."’

Mr. Berkeley had been told, as all children ſhould be, that the poor had a right to a ſhare of all his money; ac⯑cordingly, the firſt bright ſixpence of which he was maſter, he procured a hammer, and attempted to break it. On his ſervant's aſking him what he was about, he replied, ‘"Why Mamma ſays, the poor muſt have their ſhare of it, ſo I am going to break it for them."’ This attended him to his lateſt hour; for the diſtreſſed ever ſhared largely indeed in every guinea he poſſeſſed.

Mr. Berkeley's underſtanding was ſuch as often, when a child, to occaſion his Mother to ſay, ſhe hoped he would [xxiv] not, in other inſtances, reſemble the famous Marquis de Bedmar, of whom, in his Memoires, it is ſaid, he had the power of appearing to be entirely taken up with bagatelles, when he was liſtening to every thing that was ſaying by va⯑rious perſons, and when he was plotting the deſtruction of Venice.

Mr. Berkeley, when only five years old, would ſtand at the window ſeat, and hum a tune, and three weeks after⯑wards would relate two different converſations carried on at the ſame time, and not only relate them verbatim, but take off exactly the action and tone of voice of every ſpeaker. Of this dangerous, however diverting amuſement, Mr. Berkeley was early broke by his Mother.

The firſt eight years and a half of his life Mr. Berkeley had no other inſtructor than his Mother; and ſuch was the extreme volatility of his genius, the wonderful ſtrength of his underſtanding, and the natural wilfulneſs of his temper, that the difficulty of teaching him to read was an Herculean labour, ſo much as often to occaſion him to ſay, when grown up, that ‘"he was reſolved not to learn to read; that he did verily believe his Mother was the only human being who could have accompliſhed it until he was old enough to feel the neceſſity of it^*;"’—adding, [xxv] ‘"I think my dear Mother ſeemed to have been ſent into this world on purpoſe to teach and govern me, as I at⯑tended to, nor cared for any one but herſelf; finding that ſhe alone had that invincible perſeverance requiſite to go⯑vern me."’

Before he attained his ſixth year, he read incomparably; and his comments on what he read, and what he ſaw, of⯑ten occaſioned the late George Lord Lyttelton, when ſtaying at his father's on a viſit, to declare ‘"he had the ſtrongeſt, as well as the moſt brilliant powers of mind he had ever ſeen;"’ often exclaiming, as did the late learned Dr. Sum⯑ner of Harrow School, and many other great men, ‘"What a man this very extraordinary child muſt become!"’ and Mr. Berkeley more than anſwered the expectations of his childhood, as all the learned and great men who had ſhare in his education bore teſtimony. His beloved and re⯑ſpected tutor at Eton, the Reverend Dr. Norbury, too well known in the learned world to need any eulogium from a feeble pen, uſed to ſay, that there were wonderful traits of originality in all Mr. Berkeley's exerciſes. On this being mentioned one day by a friend to his Father, Mr. [xxvi] Berkeley, then a young man, ſaid, ‘"Ah! my dear Tutor (as, to the time of his death, he ever termed Dr. Nor⯑bury) I do pity him. He uſed to ſtorm, and ſay, 'I have thirty dolts, that cannot do any thing; and I have three or four, with that idle varlet Berkeley at their head, that can do every thing, and that will do nothing."’ And when Dr. Berkeley uſed to complain of his ſon's idleneſs to Dr. Norbury, his reply was, ‘"Sir, if your ſon would apply at all, he muſt carry the world before him; but I muſt tell you fairly, ſuch is his genius, that I do not believe that man lives, who can make him apply regularly, until he comes himſelf to ſee the neceſſity of it."’

The very learned Dr. Hill, profeſſor of Greek at the uni⯑verſity of St. Andrew's, (now Dean of the Chapel Royal at Edinburgh,) where Mr. Berkeley did apply, uſed to ſay, that he would engage to ſelect Mr. Berkeley's exerciſe from amongſt a thouſand, without any other mark than what the French term ‘"le marque d'ouvrier."’

Mr. Berkeley, although he could not be called a man of buſineſs, might with propriety be termed a crea⯑ture of buſineſs, from ſeven years old; for he always felt himſelf, as he thought, equal to tranſact any thing that he offered his ſervices to perform. The following little inci⯑dent may ſerve to illuſtrate this: before he was ſeven years old, his Mother, being alarmed leſt one of his front teeth ſhould grow uneven from the old one not being removed, [xxvii] had ſent him to town to Hemmet, who very honeſtly ſaid, ‘"All would be right if let alone;"’ and he proved that his judgement was as great as his honeſty; for, when Mr. Berkeley grew up, and ſometimes went to him for his tooth powder, he often ſaid, that Mr. Berkeley had the fineſt and ſtrongeſt ſet of teeth he ever ſaw in any head. He returned home with a gentleman who was coming on a viſit to his Father's. A lady of very large fortune happened to be in the machine, going on a viſit to a friend at Taplow. Finding that he lived in the neighbourhood, ſhe aſked him how far it was from Maidenhead Bridge to Taplow? He replied, that it was about ten minutes drive. She ſaid, ſhe muſt walk, as her friends, not knowing the day of her arrival, could not ſend their carriage. He replied, that ſhe certainly ſhould not do that; for that his Father's coach would be ſent to convey the gentleman and himſelf; and that he would certainly have the pleaſure of taking her up the hill to her friend's houſe. The inſtant he got out of the ma⯑chine he enquired of Mr. March if his Father's coach was come, and had the mortification to hear, that the coach⯑man had called to ſay, that the carriage was gone on to carry ſome gentlemen over Maidenhead Thicket, and would call for him in an hour. Mr. Berkeley, not then ſeven years old, ſaid, ‘"Madam, it is very improper that a lady ſhould walk on the high road alone; ſo I will have the honour of walking up with you. I can borrow a ſtick of Mr. March."’ This protection was, as will naturally be [xxviii] ſuppoſed, politely declined; and the lady ordered a chaiſe. As ſoon as ſhe alighted, her firſt queſtion was, ‘"Do you know Dr. Berkeley of Cookham?"’ ‘"Yes, intimately."’ ‘"Do you know his little boy? If you do not, you do not know, I very believe, the moſt ſenſible little crea⯑ture in the world, and the politeſt;"’ adding, ‘"there was a tall young man (of, I ſuppoſe, near thirty) with him; but the dear child has twenty times his ſenſe, and forty times his politeneſs."’ The gentleman was a learned man, who laughed at that pleaſing accompliſhment, politeneſs: he was then what fine men are now. Mr. Berkeley was almoſt idolized by the family to whom the lady was going; ſo it appeared not ſo wonderful to them.

In the May after he had completed his eighth year, Dr. Berkeley went to reſide at his prebendal houſe in the Oaks at Canterbury, where he was immediately ſent to the King's ſchool, under the care of thoſe two eminent maſters, the learned, accompliſhed, elegant Dr. Beauvoir, and the reverend, learned, and worthy Mr. Tucker. In Au⯑guſt, a gentleman's family going to France to place a ſon at St. Quintin, to learn the language; his Mother ſug⯑geſted to his Father the advantage of ſending Mr. Berkeley, who, although ſhe had taught him to read French well, yet found it impoſſible, with an houſe full of Engliſh ſervants, to make him ſpeak it; and as it never was the conſidera⯑tion of a moment with his parents, whether any thing con⯑cerning [xxix] their children's education was to coſt one guinea or one hundred, immediately determined to ſend him. Young as he was, he was the only one of the party who knew any thing of French; and the ſenſible amiable lady, whoſe ſon was going to learn the French language, at her return, de⯑clared, that they ſhould have been half ſtarved at the inns and hotels, had not Mr. Berkeley been with them, ſaying, ‘"That lovely little creature ſeemed quite inſpired; for he began in French telling the waiters it was a ſhame to let Engliſh ladies and gentlemen ſit there without their tea and chocolate."’ He uſed to run to the bar, and drive them in before him with whatever was wanted. In his own language, it may with ſtricteſt truth be aſſerted, that even at that early period of life he was a great profi⯑cient; for there is not a word in the Engliſh language which, at the age of ſeven years, he could not ſpell without book; and of moſt of the difficult words, he perfectly underſtood their ſenſe, and uſed them with the ſtricteſt propriety; which occaſioned the ſenſible Sir J. Temple, brother of the abovenamed amiable lady, who accompanied her to France, repeatedly to ſay, ‘"I never ſaw ſo ſenſible a crea⯑ture. Here is my nephew^*, juſt double his age, who has been under private tuition for five years, is no more capable of expreſſing himſelf in the elegant language ^† of [xxx] this little creature, than I am of ſcaling the ſkies;"’ add⯑ing, ‘"I ſhall watch him through life, and bid adieu to all my ſagacity, if he does not become one of the greateſt men of the age."’ Mr. Berkeley remained ſomewhat leſs than a year in France, boarding in the houſe of a truly re⯑ſpectable Roman catholic negociant of the name of Mont⯑jole, under the kind inſpection of the truly amiable Pro⯑teſtant family of Fitzou. The unfeigned affection he ever retained for the French friends of his early youth appeared when, at the age of ſeventeen, he publiſhed his ‘"Maria, or the Generous Ruſtic,"’ by his ſelecting the names of his actors in that beautiful little volume from the families with whom he lived, and thoſe by whom he was careſſed [xxxi] and delighted, indeed almoſt idolized, for he had ever moſt engaging attracting manners. His heroine took her name from the ſervant of Monſieur and Madame Montjole, who loved him ſo tenderly, that when he was to quit St. Quin⯑tin, at the age of between nine and ten, ſhe was obliged to be ſent by her miſtreſs for two or three days to viſit her parents, while le petit général Angloiſe, as he was univer⯑ſally called at that place, from his collecting a number of boys a little older than himſelf, and exerciſing them every evening, and marching them with a drum and other mar⯑tial muſic about the town, after which he uſed frequently to entertain them with fruit, cakes, &c. His ſéjour in France fully anſwered, as perhaps very few Engliſhmen were ever more throughly maſters of the French language, ſpeaking and writing it as correctly as he did his mother tongue. On being thanked by a gentleman, who had re⯑queſted him to take up his pen, for his elegant tranſlation of "Nina," inſcribed to the Honourable Mr. Hobart, he replied, ‘"Sir, the favour was very trifling, for (excepting the ſonnet) it employed me only juſt ſix hours."’

When a child at the King's School at Canterbury, his mother uſed to riſe at ſix o'clock in ſummer, to walk with him out of the city for country air. One morning, about ſeven o'clock, paſſing by the city wall, a woman with a child ſat begging. As Mrs. Berkeley never gave to tram⯑pers, ſhe told the woman, ſhe could not relieve her. Mr. [xxxii] Berkeley, then little more than eight years old, unobſerved, ſtayed behind talking to her. When he joined his Mother, ſhe began reproving him, by ſaying, ‘"It is very wrong to talk to ſuch perſons without one means to relieve them, and that ſhe was perſuaded his yeſterday's allowance was all gone:"’ to which he replied, in his ſweetly melodious voice, ‘"Why, the poor woman ſaid ſhe had not ate a morſel to-day (the church clock ſtruck ſeven as he was ſpeaking); and I told her, I had no money; but aſked her, if ſome gingerbread nuts that I bought laſt night would be any comfort to her and her poor little child; and ſhe ſaid yes; ſo I ſtayed that I might get them all out of my pocket for her."’

His mother's eyes filled with tears of gratitude to God for having bleſſed her child with ſuch an heart; and ſhe has fre⯑quently declared that had ſhe been offered fifty thouſand pounds not to have heard that early ebullition of that (through life) lovely heart, ſhe would have rejected it. The ſame ſweet ſpirit attended him amidſt all his torturing illneſs. Not many days before his death, a poor family in diſtreſs being named, he turned on the ſofa on which he was lying, and, not finding in his pocket what he thought ſufficient to ſend them, eagerly deſired his ſervant might be called, to take his keys to get him ſome more money, to ſend to them; and, when his mother aſſured him that they had been already relieved by his father and aunt, he replied, ‘"that a little more would comfort them!"’

[xxxiii] When Mr. Berkeley was between ten and eleven years old, a melancholy affair happened at Canterbury. One of thoſe unfortunate orphans who are ſaid to be happy in having CAREFUL guardians, had, in the ſummer vacation, ſtepped over from London to Paris, had there ſpent more than his ſcanty allowance, had repeatedly applied to his careful guardians (one, I think, his maternal uncle) for a little of his own money. His humble ſuit was rejected. He, however, reached Dover without a guinea; he again applied, but in vain. Utterly unable to reach London, this unfortunate youth, not yet nineteen, ſallied forth on the high road between Dover and Canterbury. He unfor⯑tunately met with an amiable farmer and his compaſſionate cara-ſpoſa in what is called an hurdy-gurdy. From the former he took a ſilver-pewter watch with a greaſy leather chain, and a fox's head ſet in braſs; from the other, about ſeventeen ſhillings. This worthy pair drove with all ſpeed to raiſe an hue and cry after their foot highwayman. The poor youth returned to the alehouſe whence he ſallied out, borrowed a petticoat of the maid ſervant, got a cork, blacked his face, and eſcaped into a wood, where he was taken, and in this wretched diſguiſe brought to Canterbury. The news of ſo extraordinary a figure was ſoon ſpread; the children belonging to the King's School went beyond their bounds to ſee him. Mr. Berkeley ſoon returned, and told his Mother the lamentable tale. She, of courſe, moralized on the ſubject. Soon a violent noiſe was heard; Mr. [xxxiv] Berkeley ſtarted to the window; then, ſitting down, ex⯑claimed, ‘"Good God! how can our boys be ſuch brutes!"’ and looked as pale as death. His Mother, who is ſhort⯑ſighted, aſked him what it was? He replied, ‘"The juſtices are ſitting, and this poor creature is going to be exa⯑mined, and our boys are hallooing after him, as if he were a mad dog."’ It being one of thoſe days on which the ſchool hours permit the gentlemen's ſons who board at home to dine with their families, Mrs. Berke⯑ley obſerved, that her ſon did not eat at all, but leaned back in his chair. She enquired if he was ill; he replied, ‘"No."’ ‘"What ails you then, that you do not eat? Eat your dinner, I deſire you."’ He replied, ‘"I cannot eat a morſel, for thinking of this poor creature, juſt gone to St. Dunſtan's gaol^*."’ He accordingly went without his dinner. The next day, when he came in from ſchool at twelve o'clock, he repaired, as uſual, to his Mother's dreſſing-room. He gently approached his Mother, and began as follows: ‘"My dear Mamma, I am ſure I ſhould [xxxv] be very ſorry to aſk you to do any thing improper for a lady to do; but could there be any impropriety in your or⯑dering John^* to carry that poor young man a few bottles of wine to the gaol? for my heart bleeds for him, and I have not money enough to buy him wine."’ His Mother told him ſhe would mention it at dinner to his Father, who, ſhe was very certain, would give orders concerning it. Perhaps the poor young man owed the preſervation of his life to Dr. Berkeley's philanthropy.

At the age of twelve, he loſt his only brother, near four years younger than himſelf, of whom he was moſt paſſio⯑nately fond, and whoſe death he ever lamented till he was going to rejoin him in the realms of bliſs. As children this was remarkable. The exquiſite beauty of his brother attracted the eyes of all beholders, drew perſons to their doors and windows to look at him, which, ſo entirely void of envy was Mr. Berkeley through life, that he uſed to come home in extacies, telling his mother how every body [xxxvi] admired his brother's beauty. When he was about ſix years old, a lady meeting him one day, who admired him much, aſked him if his little brother was like him. He inſtantly re⯑plied, ‘"O dear, Madam, not at all; he is a vaſt deal hand⯑ſomer than I am: every body wonders at his beauty that meets him in the ſtreet."’ When one was about eight, the other rather more than four years old, the celebrated George Lord Lyttelton, ſtaying ſome time on a viſit at Dr. Berkeley's, ſaid to a gentleman, ‘"that he did really think, that, mind and perſon, they were the very fineſt children he had ever ſeen during the courſe of his life."’

The death of Mr. Berkeley's younger brother, cauſed by a dreadful fever which raged at that time in Canterbury, occaſioned his being removed to Eton ſchool ſome months ſooner than was intended by his Father; but his Mother, trembling for her darling, the moment the phyſician pro⯑nounced his brother's fever infectious, begged he might be ſent away immediately, which he was within the hour, under the care of a faithful tender ſervant, who lived at his Father's family at the time of his birth, and until within about four years of Mr. Berkeley's death, when he married. For this worthy man Mr. Berkeley ever retained the moſt grateful regard and affection, as did his Parents, for his con⯑ſtant unwearied attention paid by him to the health, the manners, the morals, of their ever-to-be-lamented ſon. To this worthy perſon's care was he conſtantly confided, from [xxxvii] the time that he began to run alone, until after he quitted Eton ſchool, and had a ſervant of his own. Mr. Berkeley uſed frequently to ſay, ‘"It is not eaſy to expreſs the grati⯑tude I feel towards John, for his wonderfully judicious method of managing ſuch a refractory chap as I was, eſpecially when I was from home, and he had not my Mother to call in to his aid."’

Mr. Berkeley, with perhaps as amiable, as lovely a nature as ever God beſtowed on any fallen child of Adam, had a very high ſpirit, and a very uncommonly wilful temper. Mr. Wrightſon, by civility, gentleneſs, and ridicule, as a child and youth could prevail on Mr. Berkeley to give up any project to do any thing. Mr. Berkeley had a very affectionate regard for him; and, when viſiting at his Fa⯑ther's from Oxford or the Temple, if it were but from Saturday to Monday, he uſed conſtantly to ſay, ‘"I muſt go and ſit half an hour with my old friend John in his pantry, and talk over old times, or he will think me unkind;"’ adding, ‘"I am ſure I owe it to him, for the judicious care he took of me in childhood and youth."’

Mr. Berkeley's behaviour to ſervants, as ſervants, was, from early youth, very remarkably kind; and he never had any ſervant who would not have riſqued almoſt every thing to ſerve and oblige him, excepting one Italian, whom he took for a few weeks, after an old ſervant of his married. This [xxxviii] execrable villain threatened to murder him, for having or⯑dered him to go a journey on the top of a ſtage-coach, Mr. Berkeley having a friend in the poſt-chaiſe with him. Such are foreign ſervants more frequently than is imagined by the wiſe perſons who confide in them in preference to their own countrymen, who are ſeldom tempted to rob or murder a maſter, having no foreign tongue to ſecure them a ſafe retreat on the Continent.

Mr. Berkeley's tutor at Eton was, as mentioned above, the learned and reſpectable Dr. Norbury, under whoſe tui⯑tion he had been placed by his Father, at the earneſt re⯑queſt of his Mother, who knew his merits as a tutor, having reſided at Windſor four years before her marriage, and conceived him particularly calculated to direct ſuch a ſpirit as her darling ſon. The event proved that ſhe was not miſtaken; for, volatile and idle as Mr. Berkeley was, it is certain Dr. Norbury contrived to make him apply more than ever any one before had done, excepting his Mother, who often regretted, that, finding what caſt of genius her eldeſt ſon had, ſhe had not ſet about learning Latin and Greek, that ſhe might have made him apply more cloſely in his youth. As a proof of Mrs. Berkeley's inflexible ſteadineſs, in teaching her ſon and correcting his perverſe⯑neſs of temper, ſhe once made him ſay the word "Nico⯑demus" thirty times, when he was about five years old, which he either could not, or would not, pronounce pro⯑perly. [xxxix] When grown up, he uſed to ſay, ‘"Oh! my dear Mother, it was would not; for it was one of my numerous trials of ſkill with you;"’ adding, ‘"but you were very wiſe to do it, or God knows what muſt have become of me!"’

Dr. Berkeley's grand object was to ſee his ſon as great a ſcholar as his father Biſhop Berkeley. Never having been at any ſchool himſelf, but coming immediately from the palace of Cloyne to Chriſt Church in Oxford, he had conceived that Eton collegers, if they had talents, muſt neceſſarily be excellent ſcholars; and, after his ſon had been a conſiderable time at Eton, boarding at the houſe of the worthy Mrs. Tyrrell, and her truly amiable niece Mrs. Brookland, whom Mr. Berkeley, through his life, termed ‘"that angelic-tempered woman,"’ he dutifully ſubmitted to go into the long chamber, to the extreme affliction of his Mother, who conjured his Father, with many tears, not to remove him; but he conſulted, and followed the advice of, the then provoſt of Eton, Dr. Barnard, although he had, by his accompliſhed, worthy friend, the late Dr. Sumner, of Harrow, been cautioned againſt his wiles, in theſe remarkable words: ‘"Never truſt that man: he has a black heart: I had myſelf been head maſter of Eton, my friends in power having ſecured it for me; but, on my aſking if Dr. Barnard was to be provoſt, and being an⯑ſwered in the affirmative, I, for that ſole reaſon, begged [xl] to decline it."’ The ſubſequent conduct of Dr. Barnard fully juſtified the truth of the character Dr. Sumner had given of him. Could any man but Dr. Barnard have treated the firſt ſchool in England, over which he had ſo long pre⯑ſided, and which he had, upon the whole^*, ſo well go⯑verned, with ſuch marked contempt as he did, by not ſuf⯑fering [xli] his ſon to be educated at that ſchool, but keeping him at home in his own houſe, and introducing ſome per⯑ſon to teach him there, never permitting him to aſſociate or play with the fine youths of the ſchool. A few inſigni⯑cant boys were now and then introduced to play with Maſter Barnard. Could five hundred youths and boys, ſome of them ſons of the firſt nobleſſe of theſe three king⯑doms, others ſons of the firſt ſcholars in thoſe kingdoms, degenerate in a few days after the famous Dr. Barnard ceaſed to govern them, that he could prefer all the un⯑comfortable inconveniences of an home-education for his only child? Had Dr. Barnard been removed to the pro⯑voſtſhip of King's College, ſomething might have been of⯑fered in excuſe for this cruel conduct to the new Maſter, [xlii] a man of profound erudition, and, before he became maſter^*, of amiable diſpoſition and gentle manners; but Dr. Bar⯑nard, the world at that time ſaid, meant to have a foil, as he never could ſhew his wit without a but; which occaſioned his bringing in that poor weak creature, Teddy Betham, fellow of Eton.

Mr. Berkeley, being ever a moſt obedient ſon, went into college; but he ſoon found very different treatment from what he had a right to expect from ſome of thoſe in power. Dr. Barnard promiſed Dr. Berkeley, that he would ſend for him frequently, and pay every attention to the grandſon of the great Biſhop Berkeley. Mr. Berkeley never entered the provoſt's houſe after he became ‘"a poor col⯑leger ^†."’ His father, in order to remedy the evil, per⯑mitted him to ſpend two hundred pounds a year during the whole time he remained in the college.

[xliii] It was evident, that Mr. Berkeley never eſcaped pu⯑niſhment, when it could at any rate be contrived to inflict it; and as a colleger, he became more liable to it. His Father, learning this from other young men, as well as from his ſon, offered to take him from college; but, with that fortitude, which attended him through life, through his torturing illneſs for the laſt three years of it to his lateſt breath, he declined it, ſaying, ‘"It was but for a few years."’ However, when he was a little turned of ſix⯑teen, his Father, inſtead of letting him remain until nine⯑teen, which was his original intention, took him home to his houſe at Cookham, determining to become his tutor for two years, until he went to Oxford, whither he in⯑tended to remove his family during Mr. Berkeley's ſéjour at that univerſity; and the refuſal of a houſe in St. Giles's was ſecured to Dr. Berkeley, which was occupied by the very ſenſible R. Harcourt, Eſquire, for the ſame wiſe and kind purpoſe; and it happily ſucceeded.

On Mr. Berkeley's quitting ſchool, in order to atone for the want of cricket at dear Eton, Mr. Berkeley had a fine hunter kept for him by his Father, and he generally hunted twice a week with the buck hounds. Mr. Berke⯑ley rode remarkably well.

The village and neighbourhood of Cookham, it ſhould be obſerved, though a very fluctuating one, happened, very [xliv] lukily for Mr. Berkeley, juſt at that time, to abound with ſenſible, cultivated, poliſhed families; had his Parents ſe⯑lected them, they could not have done it more in general to their wiſh. Theſe families, viz. the polite Lord Co⯑nyngham's; the learned, accompliſhed Daniel Mal⯑thus's, Eſquire; the very ſenſible Thomas Forſter's, Eſ⯑quire; Thomas Parry's, Eſquire; and thoſe of two very ſenſible Ladies, in two ſmall houſes; lived in the ſtricteſt harmony, perpetually meeting at each other's houſes; which occaſioned Mr. Berkeley's Mother one day to aſk, ‘"Where is our next PARISH meeting to be held?"’ and they ever after retained the name. In the ſummer, parties on the water to different parts of the banks of that beautiful river the Thames; in the winter evenings, muſic, little dances, and that moſt amuſing of all round games, Pope Joan.

To the above may be added, the large and agreeable ſociety at Taplow; the politeſt of men, Lord Inchiquin, and the Honourable, Reverend, ſenſible, and truly wor⯑thy Mr. Hamilton, with his agreeable family, the ſenſible, and worthy relict of General Leighton, with her accom⯑pliſhed daughters. It will naturally be ſuppoſed, that Mr. Berkeley could not quit ſuch very agreeable ſociety without a pang^*, eſpecially when part of it was compoſed [xlv] of more than half a ſcore ſuch young ladies, of whom it may, without flattery or compliment, be aſſerted, were very rarely to be met with even then; and Mr. Berkeley was ever a much greater admirer of a ſenſible accom⯑pliſhed, than of a very beautiful woman, inſomuch that his beloved, reſpected, revered friend, Miſs M-lth-s^†, uſed laughingly to tell him, ‘"that HE really did not know a beautiful woman from a plain one;"’ ſo that it became a kind of cant expreſſion amongſt his young friends, if any ſenſible, plain, young woman was named, ‘"that ſhe was one of BERKELEY's beauties."’

But to return. When the time of Mr. Berkeley's de⯑parture drew near, he, very humbly and ſenſibly, requeſted his Father to permit him to paſs three years at the uni⯑verſity of St. Andrew in Scotland; by which time, to uſe his own words, ‘"All my dear idle Eton friends will have quitted Oxford, and I ſhall not be tempted to go out twice a week with Lord Abingdon's hounds."’

When Mr. Berkeley took his laſt farewell of his amiable friends at the Ferry-houſe, he could not articulate, went out, mounted his horſe, and followed the carriage over the Ferry. It was a long, and not a very pleaſant journey, [xlvi] to quit a beautiful native country, to adopt the language of the poet, ſpeaking of the ſoul entering the world of ſpirits,

His parents accompanied him to the land of kind hoſpita⯑lity, as it muſt ever be termed by the Writer of this Preface, where Mr. Berkeley paſſed three years and an half moſt happily; where he formed a friendſhip with ſome of the firſt characters in that kingdom, with many perſons of rank, and alſo amongſt the literati, which ended but with his life. Mr. Berkeley had the honour, the happineſs, to be enfant de famille at Melvil Houſe; and he, with heart-felt gratitude, termed the exquiſitely pious Earl and Counteſs of Leven his Scottiſh parents. The goodneſs of that illuſtrious pair not only invited him to viſit there for weeks himſelf, but alſo to carry any Engliſh or Scotch ſtudent he pleaſed with him. Mr. Berkeley was too judicious, and too well-bred, to make an improper uſe of this condeſcending goodneſs, having never introduced any but two or three Engliſhmen, ſons of men of rank or faſhion, conſtantly ſaying, ‘"Lord Leven muſt know the characters of the Fathers of young Scottiſh gentlemen too well for me to introduce them."’ With what delight would he often talk of the happy hours ſpent at Melvil Houſe, and his gratitude to his honoured [xlvii] friend for inviting him attend him to Edinburgh, when his lordſhip was appointed by his Majeſty lord high commiſ⯑ſioner of Scotland, as alſo one of his introduced-friends, the ſon of an Engliſh Peer, and his lordſhip's giving expreſs orders, that Mr. Berkeley ſhould never dine any one day at the purſe bearer's table, but always at the com⯑miſſioner's! It is impoſſible to diſmiſs this article without attempting to celebrate the wonderful condeſcending amia⯑bility of the nobleſſe of Scotland particularly, and in com⯑mon with the ancient gentry of that kingdom, to ſtrangers of any degree of faſhion, and decent character. It was a common remark of Dr. Berkeley, ‘"Were a Scotch gentle⯑man to ſettle for ſome time in any ſouthern or eaſtern county of England, I wonder how many peers, or men who in fortune equal peers, would viſit him?"’ And al⯑moſt every peer and man of fortune in Fife have done us that honour; which muſt ever be remembered with the moſt heart-felt gratitude by the Writer of this Preface. ‘"Oh! ſhame to our Engliſh pride!"’ uſed to exclaim Dr. Berkeley. Although born in London, he ſpent the firſt eighteen years of his life under the roof of his noble illuſ⯑trious-minded Father in the next hoſpitable country in Eu⯑rope to Scotland: for the Scotch do certainly exceed even the Iriſh. As Mrs. Wedderburn uſed to ſay to the Wri⯑ter of theſe pages, ‘"The Iriſh give you an excellent dinner and ſupper, and let you go out to ſeek a bed; we always find one."’ The remark was juſt, and worthy the great [xlviii] good ſenſe of that throughly hoſpitable polite lady, who, having heard that Dr. Berkeley's family, none of whom ſhe had ever then ſeen, were travelling near her houſe, im⯑mediately ordered her beds to be prepared, and moſt po⯑litely viſited them at their inn, telling them that every thing was ready for their reception. This, and numberleſs other almoſt ſimilar attentions from numerous other fa⯑milies of rank and faſhion has, for the laſt fifteen years, cauſed the writer of this to term Scotland the Land of polite kind Hoſpitality. Such may it long continue; and they meet a more grateful return than they often do, when they viſit England; than did the amiable [...] [...] of Scotland, from the [...] of [...], who went in and hid himſelf when he ſaw the equipage of his noble hoſt in his park—one is tempted to wonder that he ever could emerge from his hiding place. One of the amiable ſons of Lord Leven, coming from abroad, went to an inn at Can⯑terbury before he went to Dr. Berkeley's. He reproached him, on Mr. Leſlie's ſaying, ‘"He feared being trouble⯑ſome."’ Dr. Berkeley replied, ‘"My dear Sir, if a dog came hither with a collar on his neck from Melvil houſe, I ſhould feel myſelf a monſter not to entertain him."’

Mr. Monck Berkeley uſed often to be accuſed of par⯑tiality to Scotland, and to his Scottiſh friends. Indeed he had one of the moſt amiable hearts that ever beat in a hu⯑man [xlix] breaſt. It muſt have been a very cold heart that had not felt ſuch amiable, ſuch reſpectful, attentions as Mr. Berkeley received in his ſeven hundred miles tour through the unfrequented parts of the Highlands; which was chiefly performed on foot, although Mr. Berkeley had three horſes and two ſervants, but he often went where they could not follow him; and at Edinburgh, where he generally paſſed the firſt part of the St. Andrew's vacation, until the grouſe ſhooting ſeaſon commenced. Although greatly his ſu⯑periors in learning, Mr. Berkeley had the honour to rank amongſt his literary friends, Lord Buchan, the pro⯑foundly learned, highly poliſhed, all-accompliſhed Lord Monboddo, Mr. M'Kenzie, and Dr. Reid. It is hoped that the introducing here a bon mot of Mr. Berkeley's may be pardoned. Lord Monboddo, when viſiting Dr. Berkeley at St. Andrew's, with his uſual exquiſite po⯑liteneſs, preſſed the Doctor and his family to viſit him at Monboddo, and invited Mr. Berkeley to paſs the next vaca⯑tion there. Mrs. Berkeley ſaid to her ſon, ‘"Surely you will go: it will be a wonderful advantage to you, to paſs ſo many weeks under the roof of ſuch a man as Lord Monboddo^*."’ Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"My dear Ma⯑dam, [l] I am convinced, that if I do go, I ſhall return home the beſt Greek ſcholar in the univerſity; but I have great doubts, whether my heart may not be more injured than my head benefited;"’ alluding to that lovelieſt of women, Miſs Burnett, his Lordſhip's truly angelic darling daughter, no longer an inhabitant of this ſublunary world, but gone to join her kindred ſpirits. That lovely young lady can be only a very little more angelic in mind than when on earth. Shakſpeare's beautiful diſtich on a young woman in a country church-yard in Glouceſterſhire might have been inſcribed on the monument of Eliza Burnett, rather than on that of Eleanor Freeman:

Perhaps very few females, in any age or country, have united ſo much beauty, good ſenſe, and amiableneſs of diſpoſition, ‘"and have borne their faculties ſo meekly,"’ as the lovely Miſs Burnett. She poſſeſſed all her honourable father's great ſuperiority of underſtanding, and all the re⯑fined [li] delicacy and genuine humility of her very lovely mo⯑ther. She ſaw, ſhe could not but ſee, herſelf the idol of all the young men; yet not one air of ſuperiority, not a grain of affectation, ever appeared in her conduct. A va⯑riety of diverting little anecdotes of the univerſal deſire of the young gentlemen ſtudents of St. Andrew's to appear agreeable, at leaſt not diſagreeable, to Miſs Burnett, might be related by the writer, to the amuſement of the reader.

D [...] M [...], Eſquire, one of thoſe few Laymen, as Dr. Berkeley uſed to obſerve, who kept up their claſſical learning after they had quitted the univerſity, (for he ge⯑nerally redde Greek from four to ſix hours every day,) was a great admirer of the riſing genius of Mr. Berkeley, inſo⯑much that he became ſincerely attached to him; and Mr. Berkeley ever retained a moſt affectionate grateful regard for this gentleman's condeſcenſion, as he termed it, in ſuf⯑fering a youth from ſchool to enjoy ſo much of his ſociety, who had children elder than Mr. Berkeley.

As the families lived in the greateſt intimacy, in the happieſt friendſhip, they generally met three or four times a week. One evening, at Dr. Berkeley's, the barenneſs of newſ⯑papers was, as was then uſual, I think, everywhere lamented; ‘"nothing worth reading in them."’ Mr. Berkeley reached out his arm, and taking Dr. Berkeley's conſtant paper, the St. James's Chronicle, ran his eye over it, and ſaid, ‘"I think [lii] there is ſomething in this to-day;"’ and began reading ſomething, which laſted about ten minutes, that every body agreed was worth reading. At night Mr. M [...] deſired permiſſion to take it home, ſaying, he would return it in the morning. The next day at noon he brought it to Dr. Berkeley's, telling him, ‘"that he believed he had taken the wrong paper, for he could not find what Mr. Berkeley read the evening before."’ Mrs. Berkeley ſhewed him all the laſt papers, but in vain. At dinner, Mrs. Berkeley aſked her ſon, ‘"out of what paper he had read the evening before; not out of the St. James's Chronicle, for that Mr. M [...] and ſhe had been ſearching ſeveral of them, and could not find it."’ Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"My dear Madam, I never doubted of yours or Mr. M [...]'s cleverneſs; but you muſt both be much cleverer than I take either of you to be, if you could have found it."’ ‘"Why ſhould we not find it?"’ ‘"Becauſe it was not to be found."’ ‘"Where is it then? Tell Mr. M [...], that he may read it."’ ‘"Alas! I cannot; for it never was any where but in your ſon's brain."’ ‘"What do you mean, child? I do not un⯑derſtand you."’ ‘"Why, my dear Madam, when I hear people finding ſuch fault with the poor newſpapers, I of⯑ten take them up, and help them out, as I did laſt night. I have done it ſcores of times before for my Father and Aunt, who only ſkim a newſpaper. You know, they ſay you ſtudy it."’

[liii] It muſt, however, be obſerved, in order to do juſtice to Mr. Berkeley's gratitude for the numberleſs polite, amiable, friendly attentions received from every rank in that land of kind hoſpitality during his three years and a half ſéjour there, that he was almoſt broken-hearted at quitting it, and twice after reviſited it, and would have continued to do ſo had his life been ſpared. Dr. Berkeley being at that time in an indifferent ſtate of health, the journey was about ſix weeks in performing, as he reſted ſome time at York; where Mr. Berkeley had, what he ever eſteemed an honour, young as he was, of commencing an acquaintance with the truly learned and pious Dr. Burgh, by the polite atten⯑tions of his Mother's reſpected friends, Mrs. Moritts^*, whoſe beautifully adorned houſe is admired by all perſons who have any ſkill in painting. By the very polite atten⯑tions of the Dean of York, his Lady, and ſeveral other families of faſhion, which were ever moſt gratefully re⯑membered, Mr. Berkeley and the family paſſed their time moſt agreeably in that antient city, to which the library of the very civil Mr. Todd contributed in no ſmall degree, one of the delights of Mr. Berkeley's life being to read in [liv] a library; a happineſs he enjoyed in his Father's houſe, Biſhop Berkeley's library being valued at two thouſand pounds at the time of his death. Dr. Berkeley, being in⯑diſpoſed, reſted ſome time at Newcaſtle.

In their road to Edinburgh, they paſſed through the town of Lauder. A very little way out of the town ſtands Lauder Caſtle, one of the ſeats of the late worthy Earl of Lauderdale. As the horſes were to bait at leaſt two hours, Mr. Berkeley, after dinner, went down to the caſtle; the family being ab⯑ſent, he requeſted the porter to permit him to enter, and look at the pictures. He had from his childhood a wonderfully fine eye for painting. It is probable he owed it to the ſo often hearing the merits and demerits of his grandfather's col⯑lection of pictures talked over. The man, who was a tai⯑lor, and hard at work, ſaid he would call his gewd weef to ſhew him the caſtle.

It is hoped the reader will pardon the introducing a dia⯑logue between the Gewd Weef and Mr. Berkeley.

Gewd Weef.—‘"Pray, Laddie, whence come ye, and whither gang ye, that ye be come to Lauder?’

Mr. Berkeley.—‘"I came from England, and I am going to St. Andrew's.’

G. W.—‘"Belike ye come from London.’

Mr. B.—‘"I came from within about twenty miles of it.’

[lv]G. W.—‘"Were ye ever at the greet toon?’

Mr. B.—‘"Yes, very often.’

G. W.—‘"Then ye can tell me what they pay there for waſhing a ſark, (i. e. ſhirt,) for it would be a great ſavice to me to know. I have always waſhed my Lord's men's when the family is at the caſtle, and they will pay me but two pence a ſark, and I have been told by a many that they pay nine pence there for every ſark; and I ſadly want to ken."’

Mr. B.—‘"You have been miſinformed; I never pay more than four pence for a full trimmed ſhirt.’

G. W.—‘"Well-ee wat, that is but little. I have been told, it is always nine pence."’

During this dialogue a young woman entered, with her hair curled and powdered. Mr. Berkeley had aſked the Gewd Weef, how many miles it was to St. Andrew's. She re⯑plied to that, as to almoſt every thing, ‘"Don-a-ken."’ On the appearance of the young woman, ſhe ſaid, ‘"If you aſk this laſſey, ſhe can tell you. She knows muckle things."’ Mr. Berkeley, taking off his hat, made the enquiry, and was very civilly informed. The young woman, having diſpatched her buſineſs with the tailor, went away; and the dialogue recommenced.

[lvi]Gewd Weef.—‘"I ſuppoſe you 'll gang home this way from St. Anders. Hoo long ſhall ye tarry there?’

Mr. Berkeley.—‘"About three years, if it pleaſe God I live ſo long."’

G. W.—‘"Three years! for what can ye ſtay there three years^*?’

Mr. B.—‘"To ſtudy at the univerſity there.’

G. W.—‘"Aye, Laddie! ye ha ſtudied enough. Ye ſeem to ken a vaſt deal of pictures, and other larning. No, no: ye had better tarry here, and marry yon laſſey. She has houſes twa, and parks^† five. She 'll mak a gewd weef, I can tell ye, and you 'll make her a rare gewd mon.’

Mr. B.—‘"I am much obliged to you for your good will to me; but I am afraid my Father and Mother would think me too young to marry and ſettle.’

G. W.—‘"And where be they?’

Mr. B.—‘"At the inn in the town.’

[lvii]G. W.—‘"Aye, there's twa pretty laſſeys at the inn. They 'll haa muckle ſiller. An, aye, take one of them."’

At that inſtant a coach and four drove down, when the Gewd Weef exclaimed, ‘"What haa we got coming here?’

Mr. B.—‘"The carriage in which I came from England.’

G. W.—‘"Ye come from England in that an-a-carriage; and wha came wee ye?’

Mr. B.—‘"Why, my Father and my Mother, and my Mother's maid.’

G. W.—‘"Aye, Laddie, Laddie; if you came in that an-a-coach, ye 'll not marry oone of oor Laſſeys. What muckle ſiller it muſt haa coſt your Father to bring ye aa (i.e. all) doon here."’

Mr. Berkeley then took his leave of the Gewd Weef, pre⯑ſenting her with a bright half crown, with which ſhe was much delighted, and wiſhed him a fine Laady when he married.

About three years after, Mr. Berkeley accompanied his worthy friend, Henry Grimſton, Eſquire, to the famous conteſted election for Yorkſhire, Mr. Grimſton going up [lviii] from St. Andrew's, to aſſiſt in ſupporting the intereſts of his godfather and friend [...] Duncombe, Eſquire. They returned by Lauder, when they, together with their learned lively tutor, Mr. Bruce, whom they agreed to treat with a ſight of York, viſited the caſtle. Mr. Grimſton archly aſked the gewd weef, ‘"If ſhe had ever ſeen that gentleman before?"’ pointing to Mr. Berkeley; when ſhe exclaimed, ‘"Aye, that I have; and he gave me half a croon."’ Mr. Berkeley, at his ſecond viſit, doubled the bounty, and uſed frequently to laugh with his friends, and ſay, that he had ‘"never met with ſuch a friend ſince; for that ſhe endea⯑voured, according to her idea, to procure him a wife with a large fortune."’ Soon after his firſt viſit to the caſtle, he made a ſong, entitled, "The Laſs of Lauder," and had it ſet to muſic by Mr. Jenkins, the muſic-maſter at St. Andrew's, but now a teacher of that ſcience in London. Mr. Berkeley uſed jocularly to remark, ‘"It is very certain, that I had not made ſo favourable an im⯑preſſion on the laſſey as I had on the gewd weef at Lauder; for ſhe ſtayed only to ſettle her buſineſs with the tailor, and then went off."’ Some years after, Mr. Berkeley, being on a viſit at Peten-Weem, and going with his friend to drink tea at a gentleman's houſe, was aſked, ‘"If he had not once been at Lauder caſtle?"’ He replied, ‘"I have been twice there."’ The female who aſked the queſtion ſaid, ‘"I had the honour of ſeeing you there, Sir; and I ſhould eſteem it an honour if you would drink tea with [lix] me during your ſtay here."’ Mr. Berkeley inſtantly re⯑collected that it was the Laſs of Lauder, who did not then know that ſhe had been ‘"celebrated in ſong."’ Mr. Berke⯑ley was to have left Peten-Weem the next day, but, with his wonted amiability, poſtponed it until the day follow⯑ing, that he might viſit the Laſs, who was then married to the Relief-miniſter^* of that place. Several families were invited to meet him, and a very gay afternoon was ſpent; Mr. Berkeley telling Mrs. [...], that ſhe had made a better match for herſelf than the Gewd Weef at Lauder Caſtle wiſhed to have made for her. Mr. Berkeley, who had neither vanity nor conceit, here exceeded the truth. Dr. L [...], a friend of his father, and the worthy Sir C. B [...], a very old friend of his Mother, both urged him ſeriouſly to viſit them, to ſee after two young ladies of immenſe fortunes in their reſpective counties, aſſuring him that he muſt infallibly ſucceed. Mr. Berkeley's uniform reply to all ſuch kind invitations was, ‘"I early reſolved, not to be a fortune-hunter. I have no large rent-roll to pro⯑duce. [lx] I will never alarm or diſtreſs the anxious Parents of any great Fortunes."’

Mr. Berkeley, from his youth, from his Mother, was an he⯑reditary admirer and ſtrenuous advocate for the unfortunate INJURED Mary, and a deteſter of her cunning, cruel per⯑ſecutor Elizabeth, requeſted his Father to go to St. Andrew's by the road of Kinroſs, that he might viſit the caſtle of Loch-Leven; and he ſpent ſome time in wandering about the ruins; ſo much as occaſioned his and his ſervant's being benighted on a heath, to the extreme diſtreſs of his Mo⯑ther, who was then unacquainted with the exquiſite, the amiable hoſpitality of the Scottiſh nation, high and low, rich and poor; for Mr. Berkeley could with difficulty force a ſhilling into the hand of a man who went a quarter of a mile over the heath to put him in the road to Cupar-in-Fife, where his family were to ſleep that night, and it was very late before he and his ſervant arrived there.

The next morning they all ſet out for St. Andrew's, about eight miles diſtant; and enjoyed, the proſpect from the top of the hill, of the ſtill magnificent cathedral, and the tower of St. Regulus or St. Rule, of which there are four beau⯑tiful engravings with Cardinal Bethune's Caſtle by Oliphant, now exceedingly ſcarce, and very dear, the plates being loſt^*.

[lxi] On entering the city at the Argyle Port, your eye is greeted with a noble wide ſtreet, one mile in length, and at the lower end of a noble breadth, with ſtone houſes, moſt of them disfigured by what is termed a fore ſtair, that is, an open ſtair caſe, on the outſide, in a zigzag manner acroſs the front of the houſe, and an huge ſmidie, a not inelegant name for a filthy thing, a dunghill; no court, no paliſade, no breaſt-wall or railing, before even the beſt houſes, excepting only what was once the palace of James the Firſt of England; but it is not meant here to give an imperfect deſcription of this once beautiful magnificent city, which has been ſo well done by Boſwell and Pennant, be⯑fore John Knox preached it into ruins, by removing an archbiſhop, dean, and eight reſident prebendaries, who fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and adminiſtered to the wants of the ſick and needy, who are all now ſtarving. On a full ſight of this dreary deſerted city, Mr. Berkeley wept to think that he was to remain, if God ſpared his life, three long years in it. The houſe taken for Dr. Berkeley's fa⯑mily, the beſt then to be had in the town, was without even a back door, the covetous wretch who owned it having ſold a little ſpot behind it to a gentleman at the next houſe; ſo the door was ſtopped up. Dr. Berkeley, ſeeing Mr. Berkeley ſo deeply affected, and Principal Watſon, whoſe learning had induced him to prefer St. Andrew's to a fo⯑reign univerſity, having died a very few days before, made Mr. Berkeley the offer of returning to England the next [lxii] day; for which he felt great gratitude, but, with his wonted ſtrength of mind, declared, that, let him ſuffer what he might, he would remain his three years. It is but juſtice to ſay, that Mr. Berkeley ſhed more tears at leaving St. Andrew's, than he drew ſighs at entering it.

So deeply was ſubmiſſion to lawful authority engraven on Mr. Berkeley's mind, that during the three years and a half he was a ſtudent at the univerſity of St. Andrew, he never would go out for even two or three nights to his no⯑ble, truly amiable friend the Earl of Leven's, at Melvil Houſe, without going to aſk leave out, as it is termed, of the Principal Dr. M'Cormick, whom Mr. Berkeley always called, ‘"our polite, amiable Principal;"’ or, in his abſence, of the Profeſſor, who uſed politely to ſay, that, ‘"he living in his Father's houſe, it was needleſs to trouble himſelf."’ His conſtant reply was, that ‘"the ſtatutes, which he had promiſed to obſerve, enjoined it."’

It is hoped that the relation of a little adventure which Mr. Berkeley met with during his reſidence at St. Andrew's may be pardoned. A very few days before the term began in autumn, Mr. Berkeley, who was at that time a very keen ſportſman, was told by the ſon of the Profeſſor of Medicine, a very ſenſible young man, now ſettled in Ca⯑nada, that, if he wiſhed it, he could lead him to a place where Ptermagants abounded. The youths ſet out, [lxiii] marched ſeveral miles; night overtook them, and they wandered in a very dark evening, unable to find the road. At length the moon began to appear, and preſented to their view a figure all in white. Mr. Berkeley ſoon learnt to ſpeak Scotch ſo perfectly, as at any time throughout his life, to be miſtaken, whenever he wiſhed it, for a true Scot; which often amuſed his friends, or ſtrangers, of that country, which his Mother ever termed ‘"The Land of kind Hoſpitality;"’ a proof whereof will ſoon appear.

Mr. Berkeley accoſted the young woman with, ‘"Laſſey, whither gang ye?’

Laſſey.—‘"To yonder houſe, Laddie.’

Mr. B.—‘"Can we get lodging there to night?’

Laſſey.—‘"Hoo can ye aſk that queſtion with theſe wea⯑pons in your hands? They muſt lodge ye.’

Mr. B.—‘"God forbid that we ſhould attempt to force any one to lodge us; and, to convince you how harmleſs we are, I will inſtantly diſcharge my piece."’

Mr. Berkeley immediately fired off a fine double-barreled gun, and requeſted his friend to follow his example. They then eſcorted the nymph about a quarter of a mile to the houſe; where Mr. Berkeley refuſed to enter until permiſſion was obtained by their kind guide, who went in alone. In a minute out ruſhed ‘"a bevey of fair nymphs,"’ more than [lxiv] twenty, with a matron in the rear, who very wiſely began examining them, how they came on that wild heath at that hour; who, and what they were. Mr. Berkeley, being ſpokeſman, aſſured them that they were honeſt young men, ſtudents of St. Andrew's. Still they were diſtruſted.

At length, fortunately for them, a young woman eſpied a youth in the highland dreſs, and, going up to him, aſked ‘"Who he was?"’

Servant.—‘"Who? why I am ſervant to that tall gen⯑tleman.’

Young Woman.—‘"And who is he?’

Servant.—‘"Who? why Mr. Berkeley, ſecondary at St. Andrew's.’

Young Woman.—‘"Where does he come from, to keep a ſervant at college?’

Servant.—‘"Why, from England."’

Young Woman.—‘"From what part of England?’

Servant.—‘"Why, from Canterbury. My Maſter's Fa⯑ther is one of the Prebendaries there, and is a gentleman of great family."’

Mr. Berkeley uſed to laugh when relating this converſa⯑tion, and ſay, ‘"All M'Nicoll's account of my Father's dig⯑nity in the church availed me no more than they will do in [lxv] the world of ſpirits."’ But luckily ſome one aſked Mr. Berkeley's highlander, ‘"Who was his maſter's companion?"’ to which he, being irritated, replied, ‘"What does that ſignify? He is ſon to Dr. Flint of St. Andrew's."’ The magical name of Flint, as Mr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"acted like a charm."’ Dr. Flint is a moſt incomparable phyſi⯑cian. Mr. Flint was immediately examined and croſs exa⯑mined; and it was determined to admit them, they deli⯑vering up their guns to the nymphs. Mr. Berkeley, with his uſual elegant gallantry, inſtantly delivered his into the hands of their kind guide. They then went into the houſe, being almoſt ſtarved with cold, and ſadly tired. Plenty of food, and a good fire, ſoon re-animated them. Still they ſaw nothing but females, all clothed in white. No male appeared. The men were attending the corn. At length, they all agreed, that it was time to ſet off—me⯑lancholy news, as Mr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, to a couple of young men. Whither were they to go? ‘"Could not the beaux eſcort them,"’ they replied, ‘"to a neighbouring har⯑veſt-home, to a dance?"’ Mr. Berkeley, who was a remarka⯑bly fine dancer, and loved it exceedingly, jumped up, for⯑got all the fatigues of the day, and ſaid, ‘"that he and his friend would attend them."’ Their hoſpitable and very ſen⯑ſible hoſteſs replied, ‘"Oh, Sir! it is not ſuch a ball as you have been uſed to in England; there will be only far⯑mers' daughters. I will have the pleaſure of endeavouring to entertain you and Mr. Flint here."’ Mr. Berkeley, [lxvi] with his uſual engaging politeneſs, ſaid, ‘"There will be your daughters, Madam, and our kind conductreſs to your hoſpitable roof."’ The young men went and danced in the barn till four in the morning; ſlept ſoundly, as may be gueſſed, until near noon; took an excellent Scotch break⯑faſt, (even Dr. Johnſon liked the breakfaſts in Scotland;) and, after inviting his kind hoſteſs and her ſon to dine at his Father's houſe in St. Andrew's, when either buſineſs or pleaſure called them to that ancient city, took their leave. The young man went once or twice to Dr. Berke⯑ley's. Mr. Berkeley, who was born with what is com⯑monly, but often falſely, called a princely ſpirit, although not to a princely fortune, did not think a few grateful ſpeeches an adequate return for being reſcued from ſleeping among the heather on the heath; but ſent his worthy landlady ſome fine prints, elegantly framed and glazed, to adorn her parlour, with which he had great pleaſure in finding ſhe was much delighted. Some of Mr. Berkeley's intimates among the ſtudents laughed at him, ſaying, ‘"Now, Berke⯑ley, you have lain out a night without leave."’

The great Charles Leſlie, the famous controverſial writer, uſed to ſay of Mr. Berkeley's maternal great-grandfather, the celebrated Francis Cherry, Eſquire, of Shotteſbrooke Houſe, in Berkſhire, that he believed him to have the moſt accurate, the ſoundeſt judgement, that God had, in theſe latter days, beſtowed on man. A multitude of inſtances [lxvii] might be adduced to prove, that although Mr. Berkeley in⯑herited but little of Mr. Cherry's immenſe fortune, he cer⯑tainly did of a better portion than money.

Mr. Berkeley, on his return from his highland tour, told his family, that he might, he believed, have lived ſeven years there, on the merits of the ring ſent by the old Che⯑valier de St. George to Mr. Cherry, when he ſent Mr. Leſ⯑lie, at his own expence, to Rome, to try to convert him from Popery. Mr. Leſlie wrote Mr. Cherry word from Rome, that an attempt to make the ſun riſe in the WEST would be equally ſucceſsful.

Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"He felt a little aſhamed, that the ring ſhould be ſo well known in the Highlands, and that he, the preſumptive heir to it, had never ſeen it more than once or twice in his life."’ He requeſted his Mother and Aunt to gratify him with a ſight of it, that he might be able in future to give a better account of the famous relic.

It has been already obſerved^*, that one of Mr. Berkeley's friends uſed to tell him, ‘"that he was as extraordinarily de⯑ſcended by his Mother's ſide^†, as he was nobly by his Fa⯑ther's, moſt of his maternal grandſires having had ſomething [lxviii] remarkable about them."’ If Mr. Berkeley had any pride, when a man, which had not been eradicated in his child⯑hood by the inceſſant pains raken to eradicate it, it was what is called, I think, very erroneouſly, family pride; for [lxix] one certainly may feel grateful to God, that one's Father was not a Tinker, but a Gentleman, without deſpiſing thoſe of very low extraction, if they are not ‘"beggars ſet on horſe⯑back, riding to the [...]."’ Mr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, [lxx] ‘"Any monarch may make any man noble, but he cannot beſtow on him a long train of coronetted anceſtors: that belongs only to the King of kings, who was, as I think, graciouſly pleaſed to cauſe me to be born the ſon of Dr. Berkeley, rather than the ſon of Tom Smith, my Fa⯑ther's butcher."’

It is impoſſible for the Writer of this Preface not to pay a ſmall tribute of gratitude to the memory of that uncom⯑monly judicious, amiable, young gentleman, the late Me⯑redith Price, Junior, Eſquire; to whoſe wiſdom, prudence, and humanity, before either had completed his twentieth [lxxi] year, Mr. Berkeley owed that he was not either a murderer or murdered. During their reſidence at the univerſity of St. Andrew's, Mr. Berkeley was one day attacked by Mr. G [...], a ſtudent, (he was not a Scotchman,) for an af⯑front that he ſuppoſed Mr. Berkeley had offered to the fame of a Diſtiller's daughter, who reſided near St. Andrew's, to whom, or to whoſe father's table, Mr. G [...] paid great attention. Mr. Berkeley defended himſelf by declaring, that, ‘"ſo far from ſpeaking ſlightingly of the young wo⯑man, he had never even thought ſlightingly of her."’ Mr. G [...] brutally ſaid, ‘"You ſay ſo, becauſe you are a cow⯑ard, and are afraid to fight."’ This Mr. Berkeley re⯑ceived very calmly, replying, ‘"G [...], thoſe who have known me through life will never ſay that of me."’ (When a youth, it uſed to be ſaid of Mr. Berkeley, ‘"He fears nothing but God and his own Mother.")’ Mr. G [...] then proceeded, ‘"I may ſay whatever I pleaſe to you; for you dare not challenge me, through fear of your Mother's diſpleaſure. She never would forgive you if you fought a duel."’ This daſtardly vaut-rien was miſtaken; for, Mrs. Berkeley's horror of thoſe wretched parents who can caſt off a child for ANY crime that fallen man or woman can commit^* was ſo ſtrong, that, from Mr. Berkeley's age [lxxii] of fifteen, his Mother uſed frequently to ſay to him, ‘"May God give you grace to grow up an excellent honeſt wor⯑thy young man; but always remember, that there is no crime you can commit that ſhall ever make me deſert you; and if you ſhould become extravagant, whilſt ever I have a guinea you ſhall have eighteen ſhillings of it; and I am ſure, whilſt ever you have one, you would give me twenty out of it."’ Mr. G [...] might with equal juſtice have added, ‘"your Father;"’ for, Dr. Berke⯑ley's ^* horror of that BARBAROUS cuſtom of duelling was at leaſt equal to Mrs. Berkeley's, although he might not perhaps ſo frequently deſcant upon the ſubject. This laſt outrage was too much for Mr. Berkeley. It rouſed ‘"all the noble blood of the Berkeleys in his veins."’ He left the room, went home, immediately retired to his apartment, wrote, and ſent the challenge. His next care was to pitch upon a ſecond. He determined it ſhould not be his dear friend Mr. L [...], leſt it ſhould embroil him with his excellent noble Father Lord [...]. That young gentleman uſed to ſay to Dr. Berkeley, ‘"I do not know how to forgive Berkeley's not calling upon me on that occaſion, I who have received ſo many amiable, kind [lxxiii] attentions from him and his family."’ Mr. Berkeley went to a gentleman, one of his companions at Eton, to whom he had been particularly attached from twelve years old, and who had manifold more obligations than Mr. L [...]; he was many months an inmate at Dr. Berkeley's. On Mr. Berkeley's requeſting him to attend him the next morning, he hummed a little while, and at length ſtam⯑mered out, ‘"That he was afraid whether or no his papa might approve of it; ſo begged his dear Berkeley would excuſe him."’ Why his Father ſhould diſapprove it, puzzled all who knew his character: it could not be on ac⯑count of breaking God's holy law; for, Mr. [...] would become wretched if he ſuppoſed any body ſuſpected him of believing in God: indeed the conduct of this fine Mr. [...] towards his lady and children has evidently proved it. The deſcription of Mr. [...], in [...]ſhire, where his great eſtate lies, is this, ‘"The firſt time you are in company with him, you are charmed; the ſecond, you like him much leſs; and the third, you long to kick him out of the room—as he deſerves."’ Mr. Berkeley reſolved not to call on any friend, Engliſh or Scottiſh, whoſe for⯑tunes it might injure, the certain conſequence being expul⯑ſion from the univerſity; went to Mr. Price, who owed no obligation of any ſort, except permiſſion to attend the ſer⯑vice of the Church of England at Dr. Berkeley's private chapel; and of courſe being ſometimes invited to a din⯑ner, ſupper, or dance, in common with other Engliſh [lxxiv] and Scottiſh young gentlemen. Mr. Price inſtantly replied, ‘"He was entirely at Mr. Berkeley's ſervice; but hoped the matter might be accommodated without fighting."’ Mr. Berkeley aſſured him, ‘"that was impoſſible."’ They therefore proceeded to the place, where this wiſe young gentleman again urged the matter ſo ſenſibly, ſo eloquently, that Mr. G [...] offered to make any ſubmiſſion that Mr. Berkeley ſhould require. Mr. Berkeley from his infancy, although a little fury, was ſurely the moſt ready to pardon of all the fallen children of Adam; inſomuch that his Mo⯑ther uſed to ſay, ‘"That if any one murdered him, and he lived only three minutes, he would freely forgive them;"’ conſtantly adding, ‘"Alas! he does not inherit that from me."’ Mr. Berkeley, however, was ſo exaſperated at the brutal raſcality of, ‘"I may ſay whatever I pleaſe, for you DARE not fight,"’ &c. that for once he appeared inexora⯑ble. The ground was meaſured, the piſtols were delivered, and the ſwords laid ready, when Mr. Price, inſtead of giving the word to fire, ſtepped in between the combatants, and ſo wiſely, ſo pathetically conjured Mr. Berkeley to ac⯑cept Mr. G [...]'s offers of making every ſubmiſſion, that, at length, Mr. Berkeley, with his wonted ſweetneſs, threw away his piſtol, and ſaid, ‘"Well, G [...], you ſhall beg my pardon in no other way than ſaying, in Mr. Price's preſence, before the gentlemen in whoſe company you inſulted me, that you are ſorry you provoked me."’ So this frightful affair ended. But not the gratitude of Mr. [lxxv] Berkeley and his parents. Providence had placed Mr. Price in a ſituation to render other return than polite and friendly attentions out of the queſtion. When Mr. Price went to France, they felt unfeigned pleaſure in giving him letters of introduction to ſeveral very worthy French fami⯑lies with whom they were intimate, which rendered his ſéjour in that once delightful country very pleaſant. May that amiable young gentleman be now rejoicing in one ſtill pleaſanter!

It may, perhaps, be aſked by ſome, ‘"With all theſe amiable qualities, and great virtues, had Mr. Berkeley no vices?"’ Alas! yes. Mr. Berkeley fell, as David fell^*—as Solomon fell;—but, with them, he received grace [lxxvi] to repent, and mercy to conſole his throughly humbled, penitent, contrite ſpirit. Mr. Berkeley had not ſufficiently attended to that admonition of the Wiſe King, ‘"Uſe not much the company of a woman that is a ſinger."’ Mr. Berkeley's enthuſiaſtic love of muſic drew him into the [lxxvii] ſnares of the celebrated Mrs. [...]. His delight in real ſterling wit cauſed him to fall into the ‘"deep ditch"’ long digging for him by Lady [...]. From both it pleaſed the great MERCY of God to reſcue him. For more than four years before his death, his lovely ſpirit was ſupplicating for that pardon promiſed by our all-gracious Redeemer to ALL who turn to him in faith—‘"Him that cometh unto ME I will in no wiſe caſt out."’ Mr. Berkeley, reflecting on his thoroughly pious education and many other advan⯑tages, conſidered himſelf as a much greater ſinner than any of his young friends, who had not been ſo favoured by Providence, could poſſibly be. But it pleaſed the God of Mercy to ſpeak peace to his wounded ſpirit; ‘"I have heard thy prayer; I have ſeen thy tears,"’ Iſaiah xxxviii. 5; and, for ſome weeks before his death, to pour the balm of perfect peace into his dear wounded ſpirit, and moſt gra⯑ciouſly to ‘"lift up the light of his reconciled countenance upon him."’

Mr. Berkeley had too ſtrong an underſtanding not to be⯑lieve with his whole heart and mind the truths, the bleſſed truths, revealed in the Goſpel of Peace. He was bleſſed with an honeſt mind, as has been ſaid of a very great man ſtill living, as much Mr. Berkeley's ſuperior in years as in rank. ‘"His Lordſhip is too honeſt to endeavour to warp the Goſpel to his life, and he feels every day that they are at war; which makes him ſo ill-tempered, with a won⯑derfully amiable nature; ever acting the kindeſt things, [lxxviii] ever ſpeaking the rougheſt."’ There Mr. Berkeley reſem⯑bled not the noble Peer; for he was never known from a child to ſay a diſobliging thing to any one. So attached to him was every ſervant he ever had from the age of ſeven⯑teen, as that, to uſe a common phraſe, ‘"they would have gone through fire and water for him:"’ even the poor creature whom he took from his Grace of Bedford, after his beloved Scotch ſervant married—who now lives moſt happily with a much beloved, honoured, and reſpected re⯑lation of Mr. Berkeley's, the polite, the accompliſhed, the learned Sir Francis Lumm, Baronet; for whoſe kind, un⯑wearied, watchful, attentions to Mr. Berkeley, from his firſt return to England, Mr. Berkeley, his Father, and Mo⯑ther, ever felt, the ſurvivor ſtill feels, the deepeſt gratitude—this poor creature one night robbed Mr. Berkeley in the Temple. On his being preſſed to appear againſt him, he abſolutely refuſed. When ſtrongly urged that it was right, he replied, ‘"It muſt be ſo, to be ſure, to hang a poor devil, who might have murdered me; for we were in the cham⯑bers alone, and he only took my watch and a few gui⯑neas. No, I hope he may live to repent. Poor crea⯑ture! I am ſure I will never appear againſt him: I wiſh I could appear for him."’

The preſent Earl of E [...], when a very young man, was robbed on Saliſbury Plain by the famous Dumas, after⯑wards executed at Oxford. His Lordſhip, with the uſual [lxxix] ſpirit of nineteen, was reſolved not to be robbed. Dumas demanded his watch and money. Out ſprang his Lordſhip: down jumped Dumas: Lord P [...], as he then was, at⯑tempted to fire; his piſtol would not go off. He threw it down, and had recourſe to the ſecond, which likewiſe flaſhed in the pan. Dumas then ſaid, ‘"Sir, you are in my power: you will be pleaſed to give me your watch and money."’ The requeſt was complied with. In a ſhort time Dumas was taken, committed to Fiſherton gaol, and tried. Lord P [...] was ſubpoenaed to appear. His Lordſhip's purſe was produced. He ſaid, ‘"He could not ſay that was his purſe."’ Then the watch: his Lordſhip could not ſay the watch was his. The ſeals, arms, creſt, &c. were produced; but his Lordſhip ſaid, ‘"It was im⯑poſſible for him to ſwear to them."’ On being aſked by his friends, when he came out of court, ‘"if he had loſt his wits, not to know his own arms, creſt,"’ &c. he nobly re⯑plied, ‘"Know them? to be ſure I do. But do you think I would take away the life of a poor diſtreſſed creature, who had my life in his power, and would not hurt a hair of my head?"’ It was immediately ſaid that Lord P [...] was become a Methodiſt—an high compliment ſurely to the Methodiſts. It is not likely that a follower of that arch⯑hypocrite, John Weſley, ſhould have acted thus, unleſs ſome pelf or plunder was to be obtained thereby; at leaſt if they reſembled their wretched leader, whoſe practice was [lxxx] to fleece the rich, to feather, finely feather, harlots and rogues. Witneſs poor Mr. and Mrs. G [...] ths, of C [...], who, were induced to turn their houſe into a kind of Lock Hoſpital, until they had no houſe left in which to ſhelter their aged heads, only a two pair of ſtairs lodging in Lon⯑don. On their firſt acquaintance with the ZEALOUS apoſtle of [...] they kept a carriage, and a pair of good horſes to draw it, a coachman, footman, and ſeveral female ſer⯑vants. A few years reduced them to the ſituation above deſcribed. A letter written by Mrs. G [...]ths, from the London garret, to a lady at C [...], deſcribing their ſuf⯑ferings, was ſufficient to have diſtreſſed any hearer of it. But it was of a piece with his ſetting Miſs B [...]t, with fifty thouſand pounds, to waſh her own linen, that young harlots might be healed of their bodily diſeaſes, and dreſſed out to draw in poor deluded young men to marry them. One of the nymphs thus reſtored to health at Mrs. G [...]ths's was actually married to a perſon in London, who ſettled on her a jointure of three hundred pounds per annum. Such were the good works of John Weſley! May his followers ceaſe to practiſe them! One does not find them recommended in Scripture. St. Paul ſays, ‘"Charge them that are rich, that they be ready to diſtri⯑bute, willing to communicate,"’ &c.; not turn themſelves into waſher-women, and retire to garrets, with their poor, blind, lame, deluded huſbands, as did Mrs. G [...].

[lxxxi] But to return. To ſay that Mr. Berkeley's ſervants loved him, is too feeble an expreſſion. His own, and the ſervants of his Father's family, in general old in his ſervice, almoſt idolized him. His generoſity, his condeſcending goodneſs to the meaneſt ſervant in the houſe, was ſo en⯑gaging, that joy enlivened every countenance whenever he viſited at his Father's. He had been very early taught, that, although it had pleaſed Providence to place him in a different ſtation of life from his Father's ſervants, yet that he muſt ever treat them with kind civility. He and his brother were always made, whilſt children, to take off their hat to the loweſt peaſant and waſher-woman who paſſed them in the village: and ſo habitual was it to Mr. Berkeley to be ‘"courteous to all men,"’ that when he gave orders to his ſervant, a ſtranger to him would not have ſuppoſed he had been ſpeaking to his own domeſtic; yet, wonderful to relate, he had one ſervant, who actually had a deſire to lie in wait to murder him: but he was an Italian^*. This may be a warning to Engliſh and Iriſh gentlemen to be leſs fond of foreign ſervants. Mr. Berkeley, wanting a ſervant at a time when few were in London; a perſon who owed Mr. Berkeley much gratitude earneſtly recommended this villain. Mr. Berkeley objected, wiſhing either an Engliſh or Scotchman; always thinking it wrong to employ fo⯑reigners to the detriment of our own countrymen, he how⯑ever yielded. Dr. Berkeley, at his return from viſiting his ſon in town, ſaid to Mrs. Berkeley, ‘"I think your ſon [lxxxii] ſeems to have got a Devil in the form of a fine tall fel⯑low."’ ‘"What does he do?"’ ‘"Nothing, I believe. But ſuch a pair of diabolical eyes I never ſaw before in my life."’ Mrs. Berkeley, ever anxious for her idol, wrote to her ſon, who, with his uſual benignity, replied, ‘"The poor fellow, to be ſure, is not handſome; nor has he a very benign countenance; which made my Father think him diabolical: but he does every thing that I want, although he is not like Ritchie, or M'Nicol."’

When Mr. Berkeley was once ordered to the ſea, a day or or two before he ſet out, accompanied by his excellent unwearied friend H. Grimſton, Eſquire, he told this ſer⯑vant, that, ‘"as he wiſhed to lounge and change his poſ⯑ture frequently, and as he could not accommodate three in the chaiſe, it being ſummer time, he ſhould go down on the top of the coach."’ This Signor re⯑ſented, as ſuch an indignity, that, on his arrival, he utterly refuſed to act at all; ſo that, but for Mr. Grim⯑ſton's ſervant, Mr. Berkeley muſt have been exceed⯑ingly diſtreſſed. His ill humour increaſing daily, Mr. Berkeley at length diſcharged him without the leaſt anger or reproach. The ſweetneſs of his nature never ſuffered his anger to riſe againſt an inferior. My ſuperiors, he uſed ever to ſay, ſhall feel it if they treat me improperly. This wretch, inſtead of returning to London the next morning, ſtayed the whole of the next day, and when he did ſet off, ſaid, ‘"He had waited all that day to murder his maſter, [lxxxiii] but he found it was in vain, for that he kept cloſe."’ It providentially happened, that Mr. Berkeley's horſe had picked up a nail, and he could not ride into the country, as was his conſtant cuſtom, to drink milk from the cow, morning and evening; neither did he go to the library or rooms that day; which Mr. Berkeley, when mentioning it, looked upon as the mercy of an all-gracious, over-ruling, particular Providence, in which he ever believed, ever truſted, and was never diſappointed. Mr. Berkeley, not having any Italian blood in his veins, could form no idea of this villain's ſpirit of revenge. He was immediately re⯑placed by a very worthy honeſt Engliſhman, Mr. William Morfey, for whoſe attentive, inceſſant care Mr. Berkeley felt himſelf ſo much indebted, that ſome little time before his lamented death, he requeſted of his Father and Mother, ‘"that he might remain in their family as long as ſervice ſhould be agreeable to him,"’ although he had a compe⯑tency without it.

It is almoſt impoſſible to avoid relating here a little circumſtance, that will ſhew the contraſt between the En⯑gliſhman and the Italian. For ſome time before Mr. Berke⯑ley's diſſolution, finding himſelf unable to fit up through the day, he roſe not until after the family had dined, that he might enjoy the ſociety of his friends in the afternoon. He conſtantly diſmiſſed his ſervant to eat his dinner in com⯑fort, ordering him not to hurry himſelf, and not to return until he rang his bell. One day his bell rang, and Mr. [lxxxiv] Berkeley's Mother, conceiving that the ſervant had not dined, went to the top of the kitchen ſtairs, and told the ſervant, ſhe would go up and ſee what his Maſter wanted, and if ſhe could not get it, ring for him. He replied, ‘"No, Madam, I muſt go myſelf."’ The houſekeeper and the other ſervants urged him to ſtay, ſaying, ‘"You have but one ſingle mouthful to finiſh; do pray eat it; Mr. Berkeley is never impatient, he will wait."’ He replied, ‘"No; I will not ſtay to eat it."’ His Mother once recom⯑mending to his care a moſt affectionate, tender-hearted ſervant, her old houſekeeper, who came into the family when Mr. Berkeley was a lad, to keep in his family, if it pleaſed God to ſpare him to ſettle; he lifted up his fine eyes, and replied, in the tendereſt tone of voice, ‘"My deareſt Mother, there is no occaſion for you to recom⯑mend Mrs. Marſh to me."’ When Mr. Berkeley's ex⯑quiſitely fine picture, preſented to his Mother by his beloved friend Mr. Peters, arrived at Dr. Berkeley's, this amiable-hearted woman haſtened to aſſiſt at the unpacking it, and, on ſeeing it, ſunk motionleſs upon it. Heartfelt grati⯑tude forces the Writer of this Preface to celebrate the inceſſant unwearied attention of the two above named ſervants, as alſo of the very worthy Mrs. Jane Godwin, who has for many years been the happy domeſtic of Mr. Berkeley's in⯑comparably kind, generous, excellent Aunt, Mrs. Frin⯑ſham, for the delightful alacrity, and unwearied aſſiduity, with which they endeavoured inceſſantly to alleviate Mr. Berkeley's intolerable, all but inſupportable, bodily ſufferings, [lxxxv] as indeed did every other ſervant in the family: for all which ſufferings Mr. Berkeley repeatedly returned hearty thanks to God, frequently ſaying to his Mother, ‘"I would not have been without them for all this world has to give, as, I am perſuaded, nothing ſhort of what I have ſuffered could have brought me, as I ought, to come to Chriſt"’ Such univerſal benevolence may tempt the poſ⯑ſeſſor to feel leſs need of the atonement.

It is impoſſible to omit here my moſt grateful acknow⯑ledgements to many amiable-hearted perſons in the inferior ſtations in life, to whom Mr. Berkeley was only known by his almoſt divine philanthropy, and by his ſevere ſufferings—at Haſtings, at Dover, and at Cheltenham—who ſeemed to vie with each other, who ſhould be moſt active in endeavour⯑ing to lighten the diſtreſs of a poor miſerable ſtomach, that for many months regurgitated every delicacy of every kind^*. Perſons are often puniſhed in kind.—‘"By what things a man ſinneth, by the ſame alſo ſhall he be tormented,"’ ſpeaks the Scripture.

[lxxxvi] Mr. Berkeley never was an epicure a moment of his life; frequently, when the family dined out, and he did not chooſe to accompany them, Mrs. Berkeley would aſk him, ‘"What ſhe ſhould order for his dinner?"’ His conſtant re⯑ply was, ‘"Oh! my dear Madam, whatever they have in the ſervants' hall will do for me."’ ‘"But, my dear, they have not any thing yet ordered."’ ‘"Well, then, if it is quite convenient, a neck of mutton and broth, and ſuet dumplings, and turnips;"’ of which he conſtantly ate the abſolute ſcrag; which often occaſioned his mother's telling him, ‘"However you may torment your wife, if ever you marry, it will not be as an epicure."’

Mr. Berkeley wiſhed exceedingly to have gone to Dover immediately, on his being ordered the third time to the ſea, that, together with ſea bathing, he might have enjoyed the delightful ſociety of his old, his beloved, his ſincerely reſpected friends, the excellent Sir Robert and Lady Lau⯑rie, and their throughly amiable ſon and daughter; but his father wiſhed him to make choice of Haſtings; and Mr. Berkeley was the moſt obedient of ſons. As the autumn advanced, the want of a warm ſea-bath obliged him to quit Haſtings, and he repaired to Dover, accompanied by his excellent relation above named, Mrs. Frinſham; where he received ſuch amiable, ſuch inceſſant attentions, from the lovely family of Laurie, the angelic Mrs. Firebrace, and the very worthy Mrs. and Miſs Payne—although it were [lxxxvii] impoſſible, even if poſſeſſed of the mines of Peru and Mexico, to repay their kindneſs, yet muſt it ever be, whilſt poſſeſſed of life, regiſtered in the retentive grateful memory of the Editor; and may HE who rewardeth every one ac⯑cording to, although not for, their good works, reward theſe amiable friends an hundred, a thouſand fold, in TIME, and through the countleſs ages of ETERNITY, is a prayer offered daily at the throne of that God who hears and anſwers prayer, as is often happily experienced by thoſe who believe and truſt HIS gracious promiſes, revealed in the Holy Scriptures. The mention of theſe particular kind, old, intimate friends of Mr. Berkeley and his family, does not prevent the Writer from feeling the ſincereſt gratitude to numberleſs other of the wonderfully amiable inhabitants of Dover, who, high and low, ſeemed to ſtudy who ſhould be moſt forward in ſhewing every poſſible attention to Mr. Berkeley, ſo much as frequently at this time to occaſion the above named worthy domeſtics to ſay, ‘"they never ſaw ſuch de⯑lightful people as the inhabitants of Dover."’ It has been repeatedly aſſerted many years ago by the Writer, who has often bathed in the ſea at Dover, that the inhabitants, even the very loweſt ranks, were certainly the moſt cour⯑teous people in Europe, and attributed it to their vicinity to their once amiable, delightfully courteous neighbours on the other ſide of the water. The ſtreets of Dover are narrow, of courſe the pavement cannot be wide; and ſo very attentive are they, that you never ſee an inferior [lxxxviii] take the wall of a ſuperior, or a charity-ſchool child of an elder perſon. If, looking on the other ſide, a bricklayer's labourer in a leathern apron ſtumble on any lady or gentle⯑man, he inſtantly ſteps off the narrow pavement with, ‘"I aſk your pardon, Sir, or Madam, for not ſeeing you were coming."’ Mr. Berkeley's father uſed to ſay, ‘"They remind me of the days of my youth, ſpent in Ireland, where the inferior people are moſt remarkably reſpectful to their ſuperiors."’

It would be a vain effort to attempt doing juſtice to Mr. Berkeley's gratitude to the excellent Mr. Brydges, of Wootton Court, and his accompliſhed lady; at Dover, at the time Mr. Berkeley was there. He uſed to exclaim, ‘"How often have they driven over to Wootton Court, to fetch me ſome fine fruit, as if I had been only brother to both."’ Fruit fit to eat, indeed any fruit, cannot be procured for any ſum at Dover: and on fruit, ſweetmeats, and old hock, did Mr. Berkeley long ſubſiſt. After his ar⯑rival at Cheltenham, how many fervent prayers did he pour forth to the Almighty, to reward the throughly amiable relations of his Mother, Sir John and Lady Guiſe; when a ſervant arrived loaded with the fine fruits of Highnam Court, as alſo the amiable highly reſpected old friend of his Mo⯑ther, Mr. De la Bere, of Cheltenham, in whoſe pleaſing converſation Mr. Berkeley much delighted, during the few weeks of his life after his arrival at Cheltenham; whither [lxxxix] he went, in compliance with the wiſhes of his Mother, to enjoy the advice of the celebrated Dr. Cheſtern, of Glou⯑ceſter. But, alas! Mr. Berkeley fell a victim to duty! He had for near two years before been under the hands of an hy⯑pocritical IGNORAMUS^*, in whom his Father placed great [xc] confidence. His Mother ſaw through the wretch; and what added to her anguiſh was, that two, perhaps, as ſkilful me⯑dical men as any in England reſided at the ſame town; one of whom always attended Mr. Berkeley's Mother when ill, as ſhe frequently declared to Dr. Berkeley that to the third ſhe would not truſt the life of her Angola cat.

[xci] God's ways are unſearchable; but they are all well or⯑dered for his children, who are enabled to feel, as well as ſay, ‘"All thy ways are Mercy and Truth,"’ &c. Perhaps few ſituations have been more diſtreſſing than that of Mr. Berkeley's Mother for many weeks. Juſt at the time when ſhe ſhould have ſet out to attend her Son at Dover, her tenderly beloved Partner was ſeized at Cheltenham with a moſt tremendous diſorder, that threatened almoſt immediate diſſolution. Every poſt brought more alarming accounts from Dover—

ſays Dr. Young, when relating his own ſufferings during Lady Betty's laſt illneſs. Her agonies every time the poſt⯑boy's horn notified his arrival may, by thoſe who have feeling hearts, be more eaſily imagined than deſcribed, and eſpecially as they were obliged to be ſuppreſſed. It, however, pleaſed the mercy of God to grant a reprieve—a ſhort one, alas! to theſe two, too dear objects. Mr. Berkeley languiſhed to ſee once more his Mother; Per⯑haps no Mother ever did love a Son quite ſo ſincerely; and it was ſuppoſed by thoſe who knew him well, that no man ever did love even a Mother ſo exceedingly as Mr. Berke⯑ley^*. That love commenced, as Mrs. Berkeley uſed to tell [xcii] her Son, ‘"the inſtant ſhe ſaw his dear homely face;"’ and continued unabated—alas! daily increaſed—until his fine face was for ever hid from her bodily eyes by the arrival of the Plumber late on Saturday evening preceding his interment on the Sunday evening. God, in love, in mercy, muſt remove the ‘"idols ^† out of the hearts"’ of his children.

Mr. Berkeley's Mother always flattered herſelf with the hope, that as ſhe never ſpoiled, or improperly gratified her children, and conſtantly corrected them, according to the advice of the Wiſe King, the Book of Proverbs being her conſtant directory, that ſhe did not idolize them: but, alas! the wiſeſt are too apt to deceive themſelves—how much more then a poor weak Female!

Mrs. Berkeley's firſt care for her children was the ſalva⯑tion of their ſouls; ſecondly, the cultivation of their minds and manners; next, the forming their perſons; and, laſtly, [xciii] the advancing her Son in his profeſſion, for the youngeſt died before he attained to nine years.

When it is mentioned that attention was paid to the immortal part of Mr. Berkeley even before he was born, it will be eaſily imagined, that, as ſoon as reaſon began to dawn, every judicious attention was paid to the direction of the Holy Spirit, delivered by St. Paul, ‘"Bring up your chil⯑dren in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."’ From the time that his Mother perceived that the all-gracious Giver of every good gift was about to entruſt her with the care of an immortal ſoul, that muſt paſs the countleſs ages of eter⯑nity, either in bliſs unſpeakable, or woe unutterable; ſhe never failed to pray daily, that nothing deſcended from her might ever be ſeparated from that adorable God, who lived and died, that man might live for ever; and ſhe truſts, through free ſovereign Grace, and Redeeming Love, to be enabled to ſay at the great day, ‘"Lo! here am, I and the children whom thou haſt graciouſly given me^*."’

[xciv] Almoſt as ſoon as Mr. Berkeley could articulate, there was diſcovered in him, what attended him through life, wonderful powers of reaſoning, and an inceſſant enquiry ‘"How can theſe things be,"’ and a ſagacity that it was next to impoſſible to deceive; which once occaſioned a ſenſible Lady^*, mother of many fine children, to ſay, ‘"Of what [xcv] can that little creature's brain be formed? for I never heard any child aſk ſuch very extraordinary queſtions, not even at double his age."’

Mr. Berkeley was early a great ſceptic, which alarmed his Mother the leſs, as ſhe felt it was hereditary; and ſhe purſued the ſame plan which her eminently pious and wiſe Mother had ſo happily uſed towards herſelf; and her en⯑deavours to direct and ſettle that dangerous tendency of mind were ſo happily bleſſed, that, from the early age of fifteen, Mr. Berkeley was a moſt zealous, ardent ſtickler for the co-equal co-eternal Godhead of his adored Redeemer, and of the Holy Spirit, with the Father. A moſt reſpecta⯑ble and worthy friend of his early youth, in a letter to his Mother on the death of his beloved friend, ſays, ‘"How often have I heard him in company battling for the ho⯑nour of his Saviour, and ſilencing his Deiſtical acquain⯑tance and friends!"’ He had many friends, whom he ear⯑neſtly wiſhed to lead out of their infidel darkneſs into the glorious ſunſhine of the Goſpel of Chriſt—ſeveral of the great Geniuſes of this day^*, who may perhaps affect to [xcvi] laugh or ſcoff at this, although they know it to be true, and that Mr. Berkeley did not wait to believe in the Saviour of the world, until driven to him by ſickneſs or the ter⯑rors of death.

Mrs. Berkeley, when her children were young, and during their being under their Father's roof, whilſt at the King's School at Canterbury, devoted her mornings prima⯑rily to them, never admitting any morning viſitor; which occaſioned the ſenſible, the witty Lady [...], an old intimate ſchool friend of hers, frequently to ſay, ‘"I wiſh thoſe two naſty little brats were dead out of the way; then your friends might enjoy a little of your company."’ The jocular wiſh, alas, is realized. That amiable friend was very partial to them, perpetually fetching them to children's card-parties at her hoſpitable manſion. Mr. Berkeley, when a man, uſed frequently to ſay, ‘"I love Lady [...], for her goodneſs to me when I was a boy."’ Her benevolence was ſo well known, that all who did not wiſh to drown puppies and kittens^* uſed in the [xcvii] evening to convey them into her garden. Mrs. Berkeley uſed to tell her, that ‘"ſhe would adviſe ſome poor Clergy⯑man to pack up a child or two in a baſket, and lay it at her hall door."’ Lady [...] uſed to reply, ‘"I de⯑clare, if ever there is a child found in the garden, I will ſend it to you to keep."’ The generoſity of this Lady needs no eulogium from the pen of an old friend.

Mr. Berkeley, determined to attempt complying with the earneſt requeſt of his Mother, took an affectionate, a grate⯑ful, laſt farewell of all his amiable friends and obliging neighbours at Dover, including the throughly reſpectable [xcviii] and pious Rev. Mr. Lyon, and his tender-hearted amiable apothecary, Mr. Hanham, who did not conceive that Mr. Berkeley had ſufficient ſtrength remaining to reach Canter⯑bury alive; but the divine tenderneſs of nature, which ſhewed itſelf at the age of three years^* in his angelic relation Mrs. Frinſham, and has actuated her through life, deter⯑mined that excellent friend, who alone could attempt it, not to diſſuade him from his purpoſe. Accompanied by that Lady and the three above named worthy affectionate [xcix] attendants, Mr. Berkeley ſet out, and with difficulty reached Canterbury, where he ſaw ſome of his old friends. the very learned Mr. Todd, and ſome others; and in the evening ſent for Mr. Wrightſon, now maſter of the work⯑houſe of the ſixteen pariſhes of that city—happy indeed do both high and low expreſs themſelves in ſo worthy, ſo mild, ſo able a governor.

The learned and accompliſhed Mr. M [...] of Cookham uſed, when obligingly adviſing Mr. Berkeley, at the age of ſeventeen, to ſay, ‘"Well, if you will not attend to me, I will ſpeak to Mr. John, and he will make you do it immediately."’ Mr. Berkeley uſed to redden, and ſay, ‘"HE make me do it! How ſo?"’ ‘"Why, my dear Berke⯑ley, I had not been intimate with your family ſix weeks before I ſaw that he governed the whole family."’ ‘"The whole family! How ſo?"’ ‘"Why, when Dr. or Mrs. Berkeley ſay, 'Berkeley, I would adviſe you to do ſo or ſo,' you inſtantly reply, 'Yes, Sir, or Madam; but I muſt firſt hear what John ſays.' Then on ſome other ſubject Dr. Berkeley turns to Mrs. Berkeley, and ſays, 'My dear, you will ſpeak to John^*, and hear what he [c] ſays;' when Mrs. Berkeley replies, 'Yes, I have talked to him already about it.' Now is it not evident that what I ſay is fact?"’ This gentleman did not mean that Dr. Berkeley conſulted his excellent old ſervant on his Ser⯑mons, or Mrs. Berkeley on her Letters, although ſhe had [ci] taught him the alphabet; he coming very early into Dr. Berkeley's family, and living in it very near thirty years, during which long period he never returned a ſaucy anſwer, nor uttered a pert ſentence, or grumble, when ſhutting the door. Notwithſtanding he was, when Mrs. Berkeley was not preſent, the only governor of Mr. Monck Berkeley, yet he ne⯑ver forgot that he was the ſon of his Maſter; but always treated him with the reſpect due from one in an humbler ſtation. ‘"Sir, you muſt not, you ſhall not do that. What would my Miſtreſs ſay, if ſhe ſhould come into the ſtable-yard now?"’ Mr. Wrightſon was many years coachman to Dr. Berkeley before he became his butler. A ſtronger proof that perſons is an humble ſtation may be thoroughly re⯑ſpectable and reſpected cannot be adduced than in Mr. Berkeley's little brother, when about ſeven years old, ſit⯑ting very diſconſolately: the cauſe being enquired, he re⯑plied, ‘"Why, I have been naughty, and John will not be friends with me."’ Mrs. Berkeley, his grandmother, being in the room, replied, ‘"Oh! never mind that, if he won't; but go away to play."’ ‘"Never mind it, indeed Why, if all the world were friends with, and John was not, I could never be happy."’

Mr. Wrightſon's powers for governing well, it may be preſumed, are not impaired; as the little boys in Canter⯑bury workhouſe, of which he is now maſter, are made ſo induſtrious, at eight years old, as to earn money ſufficient to [cii] receive a poundage of threepence every week for themſelves, to ſpend as they pleaſe, in little innocent trifles. A wiſe en⯑couragement this; and it muſt be wiſhed by every humane perſon, that it was practiſed in every workhouſe and poor-houſe throughout the three kingdoms. At Cookham in Berk⯑ſhire, where they are remarkably kind to the poor in the workhouſe, and moſt ſhamefully hard and cruel to thoſe who ſtrive to keep themſelves out of it, the lace-making women and girls, and others, have two pence out of every ſhilling they earn, and permiſſion to work for their own profit after a certain hour in the evening. This is com⯑forting the hearts of the poor, enabling them to procure a little tea, tobacco, and ſnuff, which cannot be provided otherwiſe. Dr. Berkeley has often had his wonderfully fine, tender, feelings ſoothed, when viſiting ſick perſons in the workhouſe, ſaying, on his return home, ‘"Well, it is a delight to one's ſpirit to ſee thoſe poor people in ſheets as white, though not as fine, as one's own, and every comfort that human aid can render."’ Tea, wine, &c. were always allowed to the ſick, if the apothecary ſaid it was neceſſary. The very worthy Mrs. Lane was then miſtreſs, with a handſome ſalary. She lived many years in the family of the late Lord Aylesford. Servants, who have lived in genteel families, are the only proper conductors of workhouſes. A butler of the late worthy General Onſlow of Cookham was her predeceſſor. A broken tradeſman, [ciii] who perhaps knows little, but how to give ſhort meaſure, and light weight, and eat the beſt of every thing, till he breaks, is tyrannical and cruel, ‘"laying his weight heavily on the aged; and not pitying children;"’ as ſpeaks the Holy Scripture.

The aid of the very learned, very ſkilful Dr. Packe had been procured by Mrs. Berkeley, who, in a letter ſent to him by her, had deſired him to viſit Mr. Berkeley at Do⯑ver, which he did, and ſaw him again at Canterbury on his journey. It was ſuppoſed by all who did ſee him, that Mr. Berkeley would hardly reach Sittingbourn alive; and he was ſuppoſed once to be dead; yet it pleaſed that all⯑gracious God, whoſe mercies are no fewer than infinite, to his faithful, however unworthy, ſervants, to conduct Mr. Berkeley to Cheltenham, where his family had been for ſome months, unable to get to him, on account of his Fa⯑ther's lamentable ſtate of health, as above mentioned. Mr. Berkeley, after repoſing part of a day and a night at the palace of thoſe prodigies of KENTISH innkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Simpſon, at the Roſe at Sittingbourn—indeed they might, with truth, be compared with the Marches at Mai⯑denhead Bridge; the Red Lion, Henley; and moſt of the great innkeepers on the Northern Road; whoſe accommo⯑dations, obliging aſſiduities, and reaſonable charges, de⯑ſerve to be celebrated.

[civ] Mr. Berkeley, by ſlow journeys, reached the metropolis, where he reſted two or three days, and collected all thoſe few friends who happened to be in town at that ſeaſon when London is uſually moſt empty, the beginning of De⯑cember. He exhibited himſelf as a man dying in the very prime of life, and beſought them to ‘"remember their Crea⯑tor before the evil days come on,"’ and to fly from tempta⯑tion. He afterwards proceeded to his Father's houſe at Cookham; in the garden of which he ever delighted ſo much, particularly in the Southcote Walk leading to the Thames, as often to ſay to his Mother, who admired it at leaſt as much as her Son, ‘"Well, if I was Lord Chancel⯑lor, and could not get the vicar's garden at Cookham, I ſhould be perpetually breaking the tenth command⯑ment."’

Mrs. Berkeley had written to her apothecary, the very ſenſible and ſkilful Mr. Falwaſſer of Maidenhead, to deſire him to meet Mr. Berkeley at Cookham, and endeavour to adminiſter ſomething to alleviate his ſufferings, during his journey at leaſt. After a ſhort reſt at Cookham, he left his beloved relation, Mrs. Frinſham, ſo exhauſted with tender anxiety, as to be unable then to proſecute her jour⯑ney to Cheltenham. He proceeded with his attentive ſer⯑vant to Oxford, whither he had written to his bedmaker, and kind attentive nurſe in a ſevere ſtage of his near five [cv] years' illneſs, Mrs. Leyceſter^*, to procure him a lodging as near the Hall as ſhe could; as Mr. Berkeley, the Hall being full, was obliged, when more than four years ſtanding in the Univerſity, to relinquiſh his rooms to admit younger members.

[cvi] It is impoſſible to omit relating here a moſt pleaſing grateful attention of a much younger gentleman than Mr. Berkeley, over whom Mr. Berkeley had moſt kindly and wiſely watched, in order to prevent his forming, as youths of ſixteen, ſeventeen, or eighteen, are too apt to do, im⯑proper intimacies and connections; the worthy very ami⯑able-hearted William Browne, Eſquire, Gentleman-com⯑moner of Magdalen Hall, now the very worthy rector of Horton, near Windſor. That pariſh was once ſo happy as to have the excellent Mr. Romaine for curate. This amiable-hearted young gentleman^*, hearing from his bed⯑maker, Mrs. Leyceſter, that Mr. Berkeley was coming to Oxford, bid her take no thought about a lodging; for that, in Mr. Berkeley's infirm ſtate of health, it muſt be more agreeable to him to be in his own old rooms, which Mr. Browne had deſired the Principal to let him ex⯑change for his, when Mr. Berkeley was obliged to quit them; immediately took a lodging for himſelf, and directed Mrs. Leyceſter and the worthy Mr. William Wells^†, [cvii] one of the ſcouts, as the college ſervants are termed at Ox⯑ford, an early protegé of Mr. Berkeley, to prepare the rooms for his reception, and collected a number of Mr. Berkeley's old friends, to ſpend the evening with him, and, of courſe, their beloved and reſpected tutor, the Reverned Mr. Green, the vice-principal, on account of whoſe great learning, and ſtrict attention to his pupils, Dr. Berkeley had recom⯑mended it to his ſon to enter at Magdalene Hall, rather than at his own beloved Chriſt Church, or under his old excellent friend, the angelic-hearted Biſhop of Norwich, under whoſe roof, and in whoſe chearful gay ſociety and that of his worthy Lady and beautiful daughters, Mr. Berkeley paſſed many happy hours of his Oxford life; the delightfully amiable Biſhop always conſidering the Son of his oldeſt friend as, to uſe the French term, enfant de fa⯑mille. That throughly angelic Prelate would frequently re⯑late little anecdotes of Mr. Berkeley's gay, lively wit, with greater pleaſure than a parent might venture to do, without being ſuſpected of too great partiality. The writer of this Preface cannot diſmiſs this beloved, reſpected character [cviii] of her incomparable old friend, without ſaying what the ſame pen wrote, when the Church of England loſt this bright mild ſtar, and the church of Scotland his counterpart: That Biſhop Horne, and the Reverend Dr. Gilleſpie, late Principal of the Divinity College in the Univerſity of St. Andrew. ‘"could be very little more angelical now, with wor⯑ſhiping at the throne of GLORY, than when on earth, ſupplicating at the throne of GRACE."’ Two more lovely mild, benign, ſweet, ſpirits have not, perhaps, ſince the days of Moſes, the meekeſt of meer men, been permitted to ſhine in this dark world for more than threeſcore years before they took their flight to join their kindred ſpirits; and may the Writer of theſe pages, through Redeeming Love, be admitted, in God's appointed time, to rejoin thoſe ſweet ſpirits, whoſe ſociety was ſo exhilarating here. Both were remarkably cheerful agreeable companions; both had, perhaps, attended to that line of Dr. Young,‘"'Tis impious in a good man to be ſad;"’ and to a ſtill higher than Dr. Young, St. Paul, ‘"Rejoice alway—and again I ſay rejoice."’ Could gloomy, pious perſons poſſibly conceive the injury that they do to the Re⯑ligion of our divine Redeemer, who repeatedly aſſerts, ‘"My yoke is eaſy, and my burden light,"’ they would not always, as if, like Manaſſeh, they were dragging about fetters of braſs, or rather lead, for braſs would ſhine too much for ſuch ill-judging gloomy ſpirits:—

Alas! no. It is a ſlight knowledge of Chriſt that ſheds the gloom. ‘"ACQUAINT thyſelf with God,"’ ſays holy Job, ‘"and be at peace."’ It is one thing to get a ſlight view of any eminently wiſe perſon in a croud, and another to ACQUAINT ourſelves thoroughly with them, if permitted ſo to do; and all are invited: ‘"Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will refreſh you."’

After paſſing a couple of days at Oxford, to reſt, and bid a laſt adieu to his friends in that beloved place, he pro⯑ceeded, by eaſy journeys, toward Cheltenham. He was met on the road by his Father, Mother, and his Father's cou⯑ſin-german, the generous, amiable, and compaſſionate Mrs. D. Monck, too well known in the polite circles of London and Bath, for her polite attentions, elegant hoſpi⯑tality, and unbounded generoſity to her relations, her friends, and the poor, to need an enumeration here. To attempt to do juſtice to her exquiſitely kind, amiable, un⯑wearied attentions to Mr. Berkeley during the laſt ſix weeks of his life ſpent at Cheltenham, or his and his Pa⯑rents gratitude to that extraordinary Lady, is a taſk not to be executed perhaps by any pen, much leſs by one ſo very imbecile. Suffice it therefore to ſay, May God reward in [cx] TIME and through ETERNITY; what Mr. Berkeley termed Mrs. Monck's ‘"divine attentions"’ to him. Amen.

Mr. Berkeley's ſtrength daily decreaſing, as it had done for many months, he never walked out but twice at Chel⯑tenham, once to look at the beautiful church^*, where he felt his mortal remains would ſoon be depoſited, in hope of a joyful reſurrection to immortal life, which he humbly hoped through CHRIST JESUS HIS SAVIOUR.

Curioſity perhaps may have led many to run their eye, for want of ſomething elſe to do, over this ſhort indigeſted ſketch of the ſhort life of a young Man, of whom it cannot [cxi] be ſaid, there is nothing remarkable in it; for, were the account of Mr. Berkeley's life methodically written by a learned, accurate pen, perhaps few lives of double the length of his could furniſh more curious matter. The number of aſtoniſhing hair-breadth eſcapes of life, in his very early childhood, uſed to occaſion his Mother to expreſs her fears, that he would reſemble Pope Sixtus Quintus, or the celebrated unfortunate Wortley Montague, Eſquire; both of whom, it is well known, were inceſſantly in perils, and eſcaped moſt wonderfully. A very worthy woman, that waited on Lady Mary Wortley Montague when he was born, and many years afterwards, in her advanced age lived with an intimate friend of Mrs. Berkeley's Mother, when Mrs. Berkeley was a girl, and was by her frequently enter⯑tained with the wonderful exploits of Maſter Montague; and thoſe of Maſter Berkeley were in many inſtances ſo ſi⯑milar as to cauſe the ſupremeſt vigilance in Mrs. Berkeley. Her younger ſon, although a wonderfully lively alert child, never had any danger to encounter, never had any known eſcape from danger, which occaſioned Mr. Berkeley's fre⯑quent dangers and eſcapes to be the more noticed by the whole family. The ſpirit of one ‘"returned early to God who gave it:"’ the other was appointed to travel longer through the thorny wilderneſs of this world.

A certain deſcription of readers are now about to be ad⯑dreſſed, in the words of that nobleſt of poets, Dr. Young, in his ſecond Night:

When it is mentioned that Mr. Berkeley's Mother, ever anxious for the ſalvation of her children, had never failed from the moment they had life, ‘"to pray that God would vouchſafe to make her the MOTHER of their ſouls;"’ it will be eaſily believed, that this anxiety did not decreaſe on the letters ſhe perpetually received from her excellent friends, Lady Laurie and Mrs. Frinſham from Dover, of the declining ſtate of Mr. Berkeley's health; and, dreading leſt ſhe might never have an opportunity of converſing with him on earth, ſhe repeatedly wrote to conjure them to procure for Mr. Berkeley's peruſal a ſmall volume, that ſhe perſuaded herſelf would pour balm into his humble contrite ſpirit. Theſe excellent Ladies, inceſſantly procuring com⯑forts for his agonized ſtomach, and well knowing how con⯑ſtantly and how frequently Mr. Berkeley redde and ſtudied [cxiv] the Book of Books, as good Biſhop Ridley, at the ſtake, termed the Book of God, omitted to comply with Mrs. Berkeley's requeſt; they then never having peruſed that exquiſite little volume, which Mr. Berkeley's Mother, on finiſhing and cloſing it, almoſt involuntarily exclaimed, ‘"My God, I deſire to praiſe thy mercy, that thou haſt permitted me to live to read this incomparable little book."’ It expounds ſome parts of Scripture differently from what many modern Divines of the Church of England underſtand them, although perfectly conſonant to the Arti⯑cles of the Church of England, and written by one of her brighteſt ornaments, who may be termed, as the evange⯑lical Biſhop Hall uſed to ſtyle his ſeraphic friend, the Ho⯑nourable Robert Boyle, ‘"a Lay Biſhop."’ Mrs. Berkeley, knowing that her Son dreaded any thing that he conceived might open a door to licentiouſneſs, and ſhe equally dread⯑ing any thing that might lead him to deſpair of God's mercy through Chriſt to all true penitents, for ſome days forbore to produce this invaluable little volume. One morning, after breakfaſt, ſitting in Mr. Berkeley's room, he ſaid,

‘"My dear Madam, I wiſh you would be ſo good as to read to me.’

Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"What ſhall I read, my dear?’

Mr. B.—‘"Something good.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Shall I read in the Bible?’

[cxv]Mr. B.—‘"No; Morſey has juſt been reading that to me.’

Mrs. B.—‘"What then, my dear, do you chooſe?’

Mr. B.—‘"Why, pray read to me ſome of your own books."’

By your own books, Mr. Berkeley meant either Romaine or Hervey, &c. Mrs. Berkeley then drew the little volume out of her pocket, and began; ſhe had not redde far, be⯑fore Mr. Berkeley put back his curtain, and ſaid,

‘"Pray, my dear Madam, whoſe book is that?’

Mrs. B.—‘"It is mine, my dear.’

Mr. B.—‘"Yes, yes, I know that: you know what I mean; who is the writer?’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why do you aſk, my dear? Do you like it?’

Mr. B.—‘"Yes, moſt exceedingly! Pray tell me who is the author?’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why, my dear, it is written by my excellent old friend, Sir Richard Hill."’

He then exclaimed, ‘"Oh! beſt of Mothers, do not make an Antinomian of your poor Son; for, if you do, he is loſt for ever.’

Mrs. B.—‘"My dear child, Sir Richard Hill is no more an Antinomian than your Mother; and you have long [cxvi] known her horror of that dreadful doctrine of DEVILS. As I have always told you, till a certain text can be expunged from Scripture, no real Chriſtian can become an Antino⯑mian: 'Without HOLINESS no man ſhall ſee the Lord.'’

Mr. B.—‘"Pray proceed."’

On the Monday he requeſted Mrs. Berkeley to read out of it again; and one day aſking her to read to him, ſhe re⯑plied, ‘"My dear, I have juſt laid it out of my pocket, on the table in my own room."’ He replied, ‘"But, beſt of Mothers, you can have the goodneſs to go and fetch it:"’ which requeſt was of courſe inſtantly complied with. He frequently exclaimed, ‘"It is a wonderful book, ſurely."’ The title—"The Deep Things of GOD, or Milk and Strong Meat^*."

About ten days before his lamented death, his Mother, ſitting in her uſual place, cloſe to his pillow, he thus ad⯑dreſſed her: ‘"My dear Madam, I have a favour to beg of you. Pray, promiſe me that you will grant it."’ ‘"My dear child, you know, that if it is any thing in my power, [cxvii] you may command it."’ ‘"It is, that you will promiſe me faithfully to ſend a copy of this book over to Ireland, for it is a book of a very extraordinary nature indeed—the moſt wonderfull book ſurely that ever was written by man, uninſpired; and God knows, they lamentably want it in that poor country, as well as in this."’ Mrs. Berkeley en⯑quired to whom he wiſhed her to ſend it. He mentioned a particular old friend of his Father, for whom Mr. Berkeley had a very great and unfeigned regard. Mrs. Berkeley pro⯑miſed him, that, if it pleaſed God to ſpare her life, ſhe cer⯑tainly would ſend it without fail.

The evening immediately preceding Mr. Berkeley's happy departure, as Mrs. Berkeley was ſitting by his bed ſide, he fell into a ſweet ſleep. A ſervant came to announce to her, that tea was made. She went ſilently out of the room. In a few minutes he awoke, and enquired of his ſervant, ‘"Where is my Mother?"’ ‘"Juſt gone down to tea, Sir."’ ‘"Go down, and give my duty to her, and ſay, that when ſhe has quite done drinking her tea, I beg to ſpeak with her."’ Mrs. Berkeley inſtantly obeyed the ſummons; he kindly reproached her for having come ſo quickly, ſaying, ‘"He feared ſhe had not taken her tea (which he knew was her favourite refreſhment) in com⯑fort."’ On being aſſured that ſhe had done, he began, ‘"My deareſt Mother, I beg that you will have the good⯑neſs to promiſe me ſolemnly, that you will ſend that ex⯑cellent [cxviii] book over to Ireland."’ ‘"My dear, I did promiſe you, about a fortnight ago, that I would certainly ſend it if I lived. Did I ever in my life, from your infancy, break any promiſe, good or bad, that I made to you, or to your dear brother?"’ ‘"No, never, I believe, in your whole life."’ But I thought, perhaps, that you might ‘"promiſe me, as a dy [...]"’ He was going to ſay, it is ſuppoſed, ‘"as a dying man."’ He ſtopped ſhort, think⯑ing it would too tenderly affect his almoſt broken-hearted Mother, and proceeded to ſay, to pacify me, and make me eaſy, again repeating, ‘"It is a moſt extraordinary WONDER⯑FUL book ſurely."’

Mr. Berkeley might moſt happily term it ſuch; for it was that alone, by the mercy of God, that could, that did, ena⯑ble him to triumph over the KING of TERRORS.

Mrs. Frinſham uſed frequently, when viſiting at Dr. Berkeley's, to ſay to her ſiſter, ‘"I am ſurprized your chil⯑dren are ever terrified: you promiſe them a whipping, or a ſtarving, (ſo ſhe termed a dinner of potatoes and water; for it injures children's ſtomachs to faſt entirely, or go to bed ſupperleſs;) in ſo very good humoured a voice, that I wonder they ever believe you."’ Mrs. Berkeley uſed to aſſure her, that there was no need of uttering the promiſe in the tone of a fiſh-woman, as they well knew, whatever the voice was, the threat would infallibly be executed.

[cxix] A curious little anecdote of Mr. Berkeley's early entering into characters occurred when he was juſt turned ſix years old. One day Mrs. Frinſham and Dr. Berkeley, going down the Southcote Walk, he gallopped by them, whip⯑ping his horſe (a fine long ſtick), ſaying, ‘"Miſs Frinſham, I am to dine upon bread and water to-day."’ His two relatives, both made up of tenderneſs, lamentably exclaimed, ‘"Oh! I hope not: go, and beg pardon."’ ‘"Oh! that won't do."’ To which his Father replied, ‘"Oh! my dear, go, and try to coax your Mamma."’ With a look of ineffable ſcorn, he replied, ‘"Oh! my dear Sir, you don't know MY Mamma. When once ſhe has ſaid (imitating the exact tone^* in which the threat was denounced) Berkeley! you ſhall dine to day upon bread and water, if the KING was to come, and go down upon both his knees^† to her, ſhe would not pardon me. My Mamma is [cxx] not like you—when I am naughty, take and give me a good hearty ſhake or two, and ſcold me for a minute or two, and then forget it directly."’ The idea of his Ma⯑jeſty's interceſſion being vain, was a lucky one; or per⯑haps as his Majeſty, in hunting, frequently paſſed through Dr. Berkeley's grounds, this extraordinary little genius might have thrown himſelf in his way. He had been told that nobody muſt ever turn their backs on the King. When about five years old, walking one evening with his Mother and Miſs Leigh, a relation of hers, in Kenſington gardens, he on a ſudden began walking backwards, preſently ſaying, ‘"Dear ladies, why do you not walk backwards?"’ Some gentleman paſſed, whom he ſuppoſed to be his Majeſty, whom he had then never ſeen. But to return.

Mr. Berkeley felt that he had broken God's Law, had fallen into temptation, and conſidering that he had received a tho⯑roughly pious education, as he uſed to tell his conſoling Mo⯑ther, when ſhe repeatedly applied to his broken contrite ſpirit, that glorious promiſe, ‘"Though your ſins be as ſcarlet,"’ &c. and that infinitely gracious one of our eternal co-equal Sa⯑viour God, ‘"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wiſe caſt out.—Come unto me, ALL ye that are weary and heavy [cxxi] laden, and I will refreſh you."’ ‘"Alas! my dear Mo⯑ther, I have been a more grievous ſinner than others, becauſe I have had a more pious education than moſt perſons."’ But, bleſſed, for ever bleſſed, be the aſtoniſh⯑ing Love of God the COMFORTER, this bleſſed little book poured the balm of perfect peace, of joy, into his lovely wounded ſpirit; and he wiſhed others to be conſoled by it.

One morning, after all fear of vengeance on account of the broken Law of God was quite done away, by HIS mercy, ‘"who is MIGHTY to ſave,"’ and ‘"who trod the wine-preſs ALONE,"’ Mrs. Berkeley, going into the room, as was her cuſtom, enquired if he had paſſed a tolerable night. His reply was, ‘"I have had great pain, and have not cloſed my eyes one minute ſince I ſaw you; but I have been in heaven, bleſſed be the MERCY of GOD."’ A few mornings afterwards the ſame anxious enquiry was anſwered in the very ſame words, with this addition, ‘"Surely, my deareſt Mother, it is not an illuſion of my GRAND ENEMY, to lull me into ſecurity."’ So watchful was he againſt deceiving himſelf, eſpecially in the concerns of his ſoul; to which his Mother earneſtly replied, ‘"No, my dear child, NO. That God whom you have laboured ſo zealouſly, ſo faithfully, to ſerve, although he has per⯑mitted you to fall, to ſhew you your own frailty, yet he will never ſuffer the Enemy of Souls to delude you. Beſides, my deareſt creature what can the Devil hope to gain by you, [cxxii] in your preſent helpleſs, languiſhing ſtate, unleſs he could tempt you to blaſpheme, or deſpair, as you lie ſtretched on a bed of languiſhing? And, bleſſed be the free grace of God, he has never yet been able to do either the one or the other. No, my dear Son, God has vouchſafed, in infinite mercy, to lift up the light of his reconciled countenance upon you, to anſwer the conſtant fervent prayers of your poor unworthy Mother, and your own, on this ſide the grave."’ At two, three, or four nights diſtance, Mr. Berkeley had two or three more ſuch bleſſed nights; for which wonderfully gracious vouchſafement all glory be to FREE SOVEREIGN GRACE and REDEEMING LOVE.

The day before Mr. Berkeley's death, he diſcovered, by what Dr. Berkeley happened to drop, that Mrs. Berkeley had ſat up the whole of the preceding night in the next room. His eyes flaſhed with indignation, and he inſtantly ſpoke to her concerning it. As Mrs. Berkeley never, in the polite in⯑tercourſe of life, ſuffers herſelf to falſify^*, ſhe was obliged at [cxxiii] laſt to confeſs, that ſhe had repoſed on the ſopha in the drawing-room. He earneſtly exclaimed, ‘"Good God! ſo my dear Mother is to kill herſelf for me: that is at laſt to be the end of her."’ And, turning to his Father, he ſaid, ‘"Ah! my dear Sir, why would you ſuffer it?"’ Dr. Berkeley replied, ‘"My dear child, your Mother would have been wretched if I had interpoſed."’ He then extorted a ſolemn promiſe from his Mother, that ſhe would go to reſt that night, amiably adding, ‘"and promiſe that you will un⯑dreſs, and go into bed, or I will not attempt to cloſe my eyes all night."’ Mrs. Berkeley retired, with a ſtrict in⯑junction to Dr. Berkeley's and Mr. Berkeley's own ſervant, both of whom attended him with wonderful aſſiduity, al⯑ternately lying in a tent-bed in Mr. Berkeley's room, and ſitting up with him, that ſhe would never forgive them, if they perceived the leaſt change in Mr. Berkeley, and did not inſtantly call her up.

On the morning of January 26, Mr. Berkeley's ſervant knocked at the chamber-door, ſaying, ‘"that he came with his Maſter's duty, and deſired Dr. Berkeley would go down, and pray with him."’ Dr. Berkeley inſtantly aroſe, and went down. Juſt as Mrs. Berkeley had put on ſome [cxxiv] of her cloaths, Dr. Berkeley, returned, announcing ‘"the heavy tidings,"’ that they had loſt their earthly treaſure. Mrs. Berkeley, although having ever earneſtly wiſhed and prayed to witneſs the laſt moments of all thoſe beloved re⯑lations ſhe is doomed to ſurvive, ſubmitted, in ſhe humbly truſts, profound ſilence to the will of the ALL-WISE Diſ⯑poſer of ALL events; acting, as well as daily praying, ‘"Thy will be done in me, on me, and by me."’ Mr. Berkeley, in a letter to his Mother, during his illneſs, ſays, ‘"I truſt I have learned my deareſt Mother's prayer, 'Thy will,' &c.’ Mrs. Berkeley ſunk again into her bed. Juſt as the clock ſtruck nine, ſhe exclaimed to Dr. Berkeley, ‘"If ever I heard Berkeley cough in my life, he has coughed this minute."’ ‘"Alas! my dear, no: you will never hear him any more on earth."’ Mrs. Berkeley's maid entered at that inſtant, ſaying, ‘"that Mr. Berkeley was come to life again, and wiſhed to ſee Mrs. Berkeley."’ It may be eaſily ſuppoſed that ſhe was not long in getting down ſtairs, where ſhe ſaw her dear Son looking like an angel, his fine eyes as lively as when in perfect health; and for about a fortnight before his death, his noſe became ſo exactly like the beautiful one of his two grandfathers, Biſhop Berkeley and Mr. Frinſham, both having the ſame fine-ſhaped noſe, that he looked remarkably beautiful. The ſame change after death took place, in the ſame feature of Dr. Berkeley's wonderfully beautiful face. Such changes are ſaid, by the learned men of the faculty, often to happen a few [cxxv] hours before the ſeparation of the ſpirit from the earthly mould.

Dr. and Mr. Monck Berkeley both wanted what Mrs. Berkeley always termed the genuine Berkeley noſe, and which her own father, without being a Berkeley, had. The preſent Counteſs Dowager of Granard has it. When the beautiful lady Georgiana Berkeley, ſhe was a fac ſimile of a wonderfully fine ivory medallion taken of Biſhop Berkeley, at Rome, when a young man. Dr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, to Mr. Berkeley, ‘"Aye, your noſe is a judgement upon your Mother, for deſpiſing mine, becauſe it is not like my fa⯑ther's."’ Mr. Monck Berkeley had, from pictures in Berke⯑ley Caſtle, and from monuments, drawings of all his noble anceſtors, and uſed to ſhow his Mother ſome few with a ſhort noſe; to which ſhe uſed to reply, ‘"Aye, ſome ugly mother has introduced it."’ When Doctor Berkeley, in the caſe of the late brave Admiral B [...], as plain as he was valiant, his lady one of the moſt beautiful women in Europe,—the ſons all reſembling the mother, the very clever worthy daughters the good Admiral:—obſerved, ‘"What a pity it is that thoſe poor girls have all got ſuch an horrid daſh of their father in their faces!"’ The young ladies are all well married, and make as excellent wives as their beau⯑tiful mother. The worthy veteran uſed to ſay, ‘"I never thought my wife handſome, until Dr. Berkeley talked ſo much of her beauty. I know ſhe was a very good wife."’

[cxxvi] Mr. Berkeley, who always greatly delighted in the Pſalms, deſired thoſe of the day, both morning and evening, might be redde to him; in which he joined. The evening Pſalms of the 26th day of the month conclude the exixth Pſalm. Mr. Berkeley felt the whole well ſuited to his ſtate, parti⯑cularly the laſt verſe. His Father prayed with him, the family attending, and pronounced, at the requeſt of his Mother, that delightful abſolution of the excellent Church of England, in her office for the Viſitation of the Sick. He appeared ſo much revived, that his friends all quitted the room a little before noon, except his Mother, the medical gentlemen who attended having given it as their opinion that he would remain until about ten at night. In about half an hour, his Mother, perceiving that ſpeaking ſeemed rather painful to him, and that he breathed rather quicker, ſaid, ‘"We will pray:"’ and, taking out of her pocket Biſhop Hall's excellent little book of Devotions for all oc⯑caſions, and all relations in life, from which ſhe petitioned at the Throne of Grace for her Son, as ſoon as his ſoul, the breath of [...], entered his body; ſhe now, when ſhe conceived it was returning to God, proſtrated herſelf by the bed-ſide, and his ſervant at the foot of the bed, when (oh! the wonderful goodneſs of Chriſt,) ſhe was enabled to offer that fine prayer for one juſt departing out of this world, with a diſtinct voice, and without one falling tear, which ſhe well knew would have thrown her Son into extreme [cxxvii] agony^*. Mr. Berkeley joined in that fine prayer, the Lord's Prayer, and ‘"The Lord lift up the light of his re⯑conciled countenance,"’ &c. Mrs. Berkeley then ſeated her⯑ſelf by her Son's pillow; he fixed his ſtill fine eyes moſt tenderly upon her for about two minutes, then cloſed them, ſhe conceiving that he was reſolved his poor unworthy Mother ſhould be the laſt earthly object they ſhould be⯑hold. He then, without calling for the aſſiſtance of his ſervant, turned himſelf quite round to the other ſide of his bed, laid his arms down by his ſide, and made himſelf quite ready for his coffin; then uttered three diſtinct aſ⯑pirations, as was conceived, to that co-equal Triune God, in whom he had ever ſo firmly believed from the age of fifteen. After a little time, one ſingle deep breath to [...] as was ſuppoſed, his lovely ſpirit winged its happy flight to the realms of bliſs. There may all who loved him, in God's appointed time, join him in caſting their crowns be⯑fore [cxxviii] the Throne, and ſinging, "Worthy is the Lamb," &c. Thus ended the ſhort—long—life of George Monck Berke⯑ley, Eſquire; leaving his parents to—what ſhall I ſay?—deplore their irreparable loſs. They could hardly be ſo ſelfiſh; and as Lord [...], a near relation of his Father, and Sir [...] [...], an old intimate friend, both with one conſent, although in very diſtant parts, ſaid, in their letters to Mrs. Berkeley, ‘"It is hardly poſſible to condole: one muſt rather exult with you on ſo happy, ſo delight⯑ful an exit."’ And his Mother has often aſſerted, that if a wiſh would reſtore to her the ſweet ſociety of her beloved Son and Huſband, ſhe would not be ſelfiſh enough—wicked enough—to form that wiſh.

Mr. Berkeley prayed fervently to God for three things; and He that heareth the prayers of the contrite, heard and anſwered him:

Firſt, That the agonies of his ſtomach might ceaſe one week before he quitted this mortal life. ‘"Oh! ſpare me a little, that I may recover my ſtrength before I go hence, and be no more ſeen."’—The mercy of God graciouſly ordered, that they ceaſed juſt ten days before his death; [cxxix] and, inſtead of that craving for fruits and acids, he rather wiſhed to avoid taking any thing, not even orange and le⯑mon jelly; ſo as to occaſion his Mother's one day ſaying, ‘"My dear Man, if you do not take a little nouriſhment, you will be a ſuicide;"’ to which he haſtily replied, ‘"Oh! God, for Jeſus' ſake, avert."’ He then took the glaſs of jelly from her hand, and ſaid, ‘"I will take any thing you wiſh."’

Going into his room one morning, he, as uſual, en⯑quired kindly of Mrs. Berkeley concerning her health, to which ſhe replied, ‘"As well, my dear, as I can expect to be, with this horrid weather."’ Froſt has ever been ex⯑ceedingly inimical to Mrs. Berkeley's health. He, with the mildeſt, ſweeteſt voice, ſaid, ‘"My dear Mother, is it quite right in us to find fault with any weather, or any thing that God pleaſes to ſend us?"’ A few years ago, an Iriſh gentleman of fortune, of Cork, publiſhed a long letter in the St. James's Chronicle, on the ſame idea. It may, perhaps, be wrong; but one has, from childhood, been accuſtomed to ſay, unreproved, ‘"What horrid, or what vile weather this is!"’

Secondly, That he might not die in the night, or in his ſleep.—He expired exactly at noon, the ſun ſhining more remarkably bright and clear than is at all uſual at that ſea⯑ſon of the year.

[cxxx] Thirdly, That he might retain his ſenſes perfectly to the very laſt breath he drew. How graciouſly that petition was anſwered has been above related.

Monſieur Le Moyne, in a beautiful little work, which, I believe, is not tranſlated into Engliſh, ſays, ‘"La mer nous repréſent la bonté du bon Dieu au pénitents.—La mer tou⯑jours ſort pour rencontre les rivieres,"’ &c.

Mr. Berkeley was too well known in the metropoliſes of theſe three kingdoms to make a particular deſcription of his perſon neceſſary. Suffice it therefore to ſay, that the beauty of his face by no means equalled that of his exqui⯑ſitely beautiful Father, and his ſtill handſomer Grandfather, Biſhop Berkeley. He more reſembled, in face and ſtature, his Mother's Father, the thoroughly excellent Reverend Henry Frinſham, A.M. eſteemed when at Oxford, and till debilitated by illneſs, the ſtrongeſt, ‘"beſt-built"’ man in England. Mr. Frinſham and his grandſon were both ſix feet high without their ſhoes: each took care not be in⯑debted to them for additional height; both their ſtrength was muſcular, both having remarkably ſmall bones. Mr. Berkeley was much handſomer than Mr. Frinſham, except⯑ing his noſe^*, the great beauty of his face; his eyes much [cxxxi] larger, which were decorated with his Father's beautiful dark eye-brows and eye-laſhes^*.

[cxxxii] Dr. Berkeley's family once attending ſome friends of theirs of too high rank to be left entirely to the verger of the week to view the curioſities of the magnificent cathe⯑dral of Canterbury; on reaching the tomb of the Black Prince, the ſword was taken out as uſual, and delivered to the company to admire. When going to be again depoſited within the iron railing, Mr. Berkeley took it into his hands, and drew it with as much eaſe as he would have drawn his own ſword. Mrs. Preſton, the verger's wife, exclaimed, ‘"Good Lord! Sir, what have you done?"’ Mr. Berkeley's Mother inſtantly ſaid, ‘"I hope no harm. My dear Berke⯑ley, why would you draw it without aſking if it was per⯑mitted to be drawn?"’—‘"Harm, Madam,"’ replied the worthy woman; ‘"Mr. Berkeley has done no harm, if he has not hurt himſelf;"’ adding, ‘"Well, Sir; I ſuppoſe I have ſeen more than an hundred gentlemen attempt to draw that ſword, but no one ever accompliſhed it with one hand but yourſelf."’ Mrs. Berkeley's alarm then ſub⯑ſided, and ſhe replied, ‘"He has his Mother's and Grand-father's wonderful ſtrength of wriſt."’ So entirely muſcular was his ſtrength, that, a ſhort time before his death, that wriſt that could lift a man nearly as tall as himſelf by the [cxxxiii] collar of the coat, did not meaſure half an inch more than his Mother's, who is a very little woman.

Mr. Monck Berkeley's perſon altogether made what per⯑ſons uſually term a very fine looking young man. He was ſo exactly proportioned, that he never appeared a tall man, except when ſtanding in a groupe. He had a moſt graceful figure, and was eſteemed the fineſt dancer of his ſtature in England. At the famous maſquerade given by the late Lord Barrymore at Wargrove, where Mr. Berkeley ap⯑peared as an Highland Chief, moſt completely elegantly equipped; purſe, claymore, dirk, &c. every thing but the kelt, inſted of which he wore the trowſe; two maſks ac⯑coſted him with, ‘"Laird, are you for a Highland reel?"’ Mr. Berkeley inſtantly gave his claymore to a gentleman to hold, ſtepped forward, and they began a threeſome reel, in which the ſuperiority of Mr. Berkeley's dancing was ſo marked, as to cauſe a very great perſonage, who honoured that moſt elegant maſquerade with his preſence, to ſtand the whole time, and to ſay, at the expiration of that beautiful dance, when well danced by Scots, ‘"that Mr. Berkeley was the fineſt figure, and the fineſt dancer he had ever ſeen;"’ and praiſe from thoſe who excel in any art, is praiſe.

Mr. Berkeley, although not regularly handſome, had perhaps one of the moſt pleaſing countenances any where to be ſeen—a look of the deepeſt thought, enlightened by [cxxxiv] the ſweeteſt, mildeſt benevolence, and, when called forth, brightened by the livelieſt chaſtized gaiety; which has cauſed ſome of the firſt characters for learning and ſenſe to aſſert, that Mr. Monck Berkeley was the moſt agreeable companion they had ever known. That look of deep thought, and exquiſite benevolence, ſeldom united in the ſame ſoul, ſeldomer blended in the ſame countenance, are ſo aſtoniſhingly preſerved in the beautiful portrait painted by his beloved friend, Mr. Peters, and by that throughly amiable gentleman preſented to Mrs. Berkeley after her Son's death, as to delight all who have a ſoul capable of en⯑joying the beauties of an exquiſite painting. The print prefixed to the Poems is taken from that exquiſite painting; but Engraving cannot give the ſoul like Painting. Mrs. Berkeley eſteems herſelf rich in a moſt beautiful miniature of her unſpeakably dear Son, ſo ſmall as conſtantly to be carried in the pocket, taken from Mr. Peters's portrait, by the wonderful, the magic pencil of her excellent accom⯑pliſhed friend, Miſs Johnſon, of the Paddock-Houſe near Canterbury. Whoever has an eye for fine painting, and has been treated with a fight of that Lady's performances, muſt be ſenſible of the happineſs of poſſeſſing one of a dear departed friend. It can hardly be ſaid departed. He is preſent, and does every thing but articulate. Such obli⯑gations are not to be repaid. The mines of Brazil, if poſ⯑ſeſſed, are not adequate. Mrs. Berkeley was ſome years ago indebted to the ſame exquiſite pencil for a bracelet [cxxxv] of her youngeſt Son, done entirely from memory; for two indifferent pictures of that beautiful child rather confuſed than aſſiſted.

At the King's School at Canterbury a common amuſe⯑ment of the lower ſchool was playing at judge and jury. Counſel were regularly retained to plead on each ſide. By accident Dr. Berkeley diſcovered the value that was ſet on his Son's oratorical powers in that mimic court, on firſt hear⯑ing of it from the amiable beloved friend of his Son, the late Mr. Thurlow, ſon of Lord Thurlow, whoſe play hours were conſtantly ſpent under the hoſpitable roof of Dr. Berkeley, who enquiring how the counſel were feed, he replied, ‘"Oh! we have all the ſame fee, a halfpenny apiece, excepting Berkeley, and he has always a penny."’ ‘"A penny! (replied Dr. Berkeley,) why ſhould he have a penny? I am ſure, he is not covetous."’—‘"No, no; but they will give it him, becauſe they are ſure to win their cauſe who have Berkeley on their ſide."’

Perhaps it may gratify ſome young gentlemen, his ſchool⯑felows, in diſtant parts of the world, and bring the happy innocent days of very early youth to their remembrance, if they ſhould glance their eye over this, to ſee their names. At the head of this liſt ſtands dear angelic-hearted Mr. Thurlow; the gentle, elegant Captain Colombine, of the Navy; the lively, ſprightly Samuel Chambers, of Wood-ſtock-Houſe, [cxxxvi] Kent; the Reverend Stephen Tucker; Mr. Charles Haſted; Oſborne Tylden, Eſquire, of [...] Court in Kent; Mr. Gregory^*, ſon of the Reverend Mr. Gregory of Canterbury; the Reverend Cooper Willyams of It⯑ning; Mr. Mark Thomas, ſon of the famous Alderman Thomas; the throughly reſpectable worthy Reverend Sir Henry-Pix Heyman, Baronet, ſhame to tell, with only a living, or rather a ſtarving, of about ſixty pounds per annum, beſtowed on him by the bounty of his preſent Grace of Canterbury, for until lately that very reſpectable antient young Baronet had only a curacy—happily for him he in⯑herits ſome fortune from his mother;—the vaſt family eſtate, except what was left to charity, all went in the reigns of the Stuarts. Sir Henry Heyman may read em⯑phatically, ‘"put not your truſt in princes."’ The great⯑grandfather of his friend, Mr. Monck Berkeley, is ſaid to have left his curſe on his lateſt deſcendant who ſhould ever expend a ſhilling in the ſervice of any King. Mr. Berke⯑ley's father hazarded it. It is almoſt incredible what it coſt him to advertize his famous ſermon, preached on the 31ſt of January, to endeavour to prevent a reform in parliament,—twenty guineas for advertizing it in one particular Newſ⯑paper, beſides frequently in ſome others, and in all country papers!—preſenting a copy to every member of both Houſes, whom, to uſe his own expreſſion, ‘"he thought had ſenſe enough to underſtand it."’ It went through five editions within four weeks, as the Doctor mentioned to a [cxxxvii] friend a little time before his lamented death. A ſixth edition was very lately printed, conſiſting of one thouſand copies, which were all diſperſed gratis amongſt traders, &c. ‘"to try to teach poor fools to know when they are well."’

It had been always ſaid that Dr. Berkeley's grandfather^* ſet the preſent Family on the Throne, and that his Fa⯑ther ^† fixed them there; and that generous, diſintereſted, [cxxxviii] noble-minded man uſed to ſay, ‘"By the bleſſing of God, I will try to keep them there."’ Dr. Berkeley, as well as his father and grandfather, was a very great politician. The ſermon was preached in Canterbury Cathedral, on Monday, January 31, and by the orders and contrivance of the preacher, and active acuteneſs of the well-known Al⯑derman Simmons of Canterbury, ſold in Todd's ſhop at York, on the next Thurſday, in order to defeat Wyville's meeting at that place, which, to the great delight of Dr. Berkeley, it accompliſhed.

[cxxxix] Dr. Berkeley never aſked, during his life, but two fa⯑vours of miniſtry—equal to the exchanging two half-crowns for five ſhillings, or two ſix-pences for a ſhilling: both, however, were too great to be granted to the grandſon of the Speaker of the Iriſh Houſe of Commons—to the ſon of Biſhop Berkeley. When his ſon left Canterbury School, he wiſhed to exchange his ſtall at Canterbury for either Windſor or Weſtminſter, to ſuperintend the education of his Son at one of thoſe ſchools. He preferred Windſor. Some years after, on his Son's leaving Eton, he again re⯑queſted an exchange for a ſtall at Chriſt Church, but met with ſimilar ſucceſs.

The exquiſite amiability of Mr. Berkeley's nature, not his temper, that being naturally wilful, in ſome ſort rugged, was re-formed by EDUCATION, re-generated by GRACE. His nature, as has been ſhewn, was throughly NOBLE, un⯑commonly generous. He had by both his Parents, from infancy, been bred up, with an horror of being what is called a TUFT HUNTER at Oxford, or a ſneaking LORD COURTER at Eton. His real nobility of blood little needed ſuch cautions.

Soon after his going to the King's School at Canterbury, there came to board, at Dr. Beauvoir's, Mr. Thurlow, only ſon of the late Lord Chancellor Thurlow, by Miſs Lynch, [cxl] daughter of the charitable, hoſpitable Dean Lynch^*, and ſiſter to the late accompliſhed Sir William, and to the hap⯑pineſs of the poor and diſtreſſed, or oppreſſed, the preſent Reverend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury. Each of theſe gentlemen inherited a very large ſhare of both their parents' extraordinarily charitable diſpoſition, as did the late lovely Mrs. Hey and Mrs. Tatton, their ſiſters. Mr. Thurlow then about eight years old, juſt half a year younger than Mr. Berkeley, was ſent from under the protection of his ſenſible, wonderfully kind adopting father, the Reverend Mr. Hey of Wickham, whoſe lady, above-named, was his Mother's eldeſt ſiſter. The Writer cannot proceed without heaving a ſigh, and dropping a tear of friendſhip over the urn of that moſt ſenſible, intereſting of youths, the only ſon of dear Thurlow's earthly guardian angel, Mr. Hey. She ſtill feels pleaſure in recollecting how often he uſed to ſay, ‘"Is it not very odd, that, although I have uncles, aunts, and many kind relations, who are very good to me; yet I always feel myſelf more at home at Dr. Berkeley's?"’ He was about fifteen; a youth of a very ſingular turn of mind, endowed with all his father's great underſtanding, [cxli] and all the real, mild, not affected, gentleneſs of his lovely mother. A ſtrong tincture of melancholy was viſible to even a common obſerver. As a child at home, it was ſaid he never loved to play; at ſchool he never played at cric⯑ket, &c. longer than ten minutes, then retired to read. Mrs. Berkeley's wiſh to delight the mother of an only child occaſioned her telling her ſervants, ‘"that whenever Mrs. Hey's carriage came to Dr. Berkeley's, ſome ſervant man, or woman, muſt go immediately to Dr. Beauvoir's, where he boarded, to fetch Maſter Hey."’ Both mother and ſon felt more than this little motherly attention merited. Mrs. Berkeley told Maſter Hey, when he felt himſelf low⯑ſpirited, and had no more agreeable place to take his tea, he would find it in her dreſſing-room at ſix, where he would, ſometimes, enjoy the very improving converſation of that accompliſhed, that wiſe director of young men, Dr. Berkeley; if not, he might diſſipate his gloom a little, by hearing her raileries on his gravity, &c. at fifteen, Mrs. Berkeley, having been in the ſame predicament herſelf, at twelve, with a youth of thirteen. Dear Johnny, as he was always called by Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley, had contrived very early in life, before he was thirteen, to form an attach⯑ment, that did not contribute to diſſipate the natural gloom of his mind, although it often exhilarated him.

The youngeſt daughter of the celebrated Mr. Airſon, although very far from handſome, was bleſſed with ſo very [cxlii] fine an underſtanding, that all the uncommonly ſenſible youths, and even lads, were her devoted admirers, as others were of the great beauty of Dr. Beauvoir's eldeſt daughter, now married to William Hammond, Eſquire, of the Friers, Canterbury. Miſs Airſon died at the age of nineteen. Mrs. Berkeley uſed to ſay of her, ‘"that ſhe had under⯑ſtanding enough to ſet up a large country town."’ Her gratitude was great indeed, (that VERY ſcarce virtue, grow⯑ing only in an humble heart, and cheriſhed by a ſtrong head;) for what ſhe deemed the condeſcending attentions of Mrs. Berkeley to her, her father being a Minor where Mrs. Berkeley's huſband was a Major. Although very kindly treated at Canterbury to what they are in moſt other Cathedrals and Choirs, Norwich excepted; the Minor⯑canons and Schoolmaſters, their wives and daughters, are in a very different line of company. In general, their ori⯑ginal fortunes, and always their church incomes, are undoubtedly ſo much inferior, as not to make them wiſh to mix. Mrs. Berkeley, on being once reproached by a Pre⯑bendary's lady, for introducing Miſs Airſons at her routs, and being intimate with their elegant, ſweet mother, made this laconic reply: ‘"Why, my dear Madam, Mrs. Airſon's father had almoſt as many thouſands a year as my father had hundreds; and if Mrs. Airſon choſe to marry the firſt ſinger in the world, a clergyman and a gentleman, rather than a fooliſh ignoramus in a red coat, does that make her converſation the leſs pleaſing to me? [cxliii] Should Mrs. Airſon's elegant accompliſhed ^* nephew, with his noble eſtate, offer to ANY Prebendary's daughter, I dare ſay, ſhe would not refuſe him. I have no daughter, thank God, ſo am not courting Mrs. Airſon for her ne⯑phew."’ Mr. Airſon and his family were ſo highly, ſo univerſally reſpected, that their ſmall houſe was the reſort of all perſons of faſhion and good ſenſe. The late amiable Biſhop of Norwich, when Dean of Canterbury, would often, when walking out, ſay, ‘"Come, my dear Madam, ſuppoſe we go to Johnny's coffee-houſe."’ Mr. Airſon, a great invalid, never dined, or even drank tea from home. He never confined his lady or daughters; they well knew he would not paſs his afternoons alone. His piety almoſt equalled his muſical powers; which he never would uſe, (except in a private room to his friends,) but in the houſe of that God who beſtowed them^†. Handel offered him eight hundred pounds per annum, if he would only ſing in the Oratorios in Lent, but he refuſed it. It is ſomewhat remarkable that the Sunday after his very ſudden death, the late Biſhop of Norwich, then Dean of Canterbury, la⯑mented his loſs, and celebrated his virtues, in ſimilar words [cxliv] to thoſe uſed by the Writer of this Preface in the Canter⯑bury Paper the preceding day, when lamenting the loſs of that cheerful, gay, heavenly-minded friend, whom ſhe had ſo far, en gaieté de coeur, prevailed on, to accompany her as far as his hall, in her way to a rout at his next door neighbour's, ſaying, ‘"She ſhould attract all eyes, and re⯑ceive the thanks of all the company."’ His gentle, amia⯑ble, eldeſt daughter, then his all, ſince married to Mr. Allen of Hereford, her mother and ſiſter being gone, ob⯑jected to his having on his old coat, and begging him to put on his ſmart new one. To this Mrs. Berkeley ſtrongly objected, ſaying, ‘"It might, tender as he was, occaſion his taking cold."’ Had he gone, ſhe would ever have reproached herſelf, as the cauſe of his univerſally lamented death.

It is now more than high time to return from this too long digreſſion; but the reciting the virtues of beloved, re⯑ſpected friends, NOW beyond the reach of any other atten⯑tions, is apt, in a heart ſuſceptible of ſincere regard for real worth, to give the pen a diſorder, which the French apply to the tongue of one who talks too much, il a une fluxe de langue. The Writer often feels la fluxe de plume. She is ſometimes tempted to form the wiſh of an old friend of hers, whoſe huſband made her, ſhe being a ready pen⯑woman, write much for him, ‘"Well; I do wiſh I had never been taught to write at all."’ Perhaps the readers of this [cxlv] may form it for her; but it is not neceſſary to read the whole of every book; and, to uſe the language of Holy Writ, they may ‘"ſeparate the precious from the vile."’ They may read the fine Poetry of the Author, and paſs over the indifferent Proſe of the Editor.

Whenever Mr. Monck Berkeley obſerved any boy, who boarded at either of the Maſters, never invited out to dinner on holidays, he would ſay to his Mother, ‘"Pray, my dear Madam, next holiday invite poor ſuch an one, and ſuch an one. Poor things, they have no relations or acquaintance here to invite them; and it is very dull for them. Pray be ſo good as to let them come here."’ This whether they were his intimates or not. Indeed his inti⯑mates ſeldom did come, having, moſt of them, parents in the church or city, excepting ſometimes the Reverend Cooper Willyams, of Ixning, ſon of the very worthy Cap⯑tain and Mrs. Willyams, and Captain Gregory, of the Wiltſhire Militia, ſon of the very learned Reverend Francis Gregory of Canterbury.

Mr. Thurlow happened to come to ſchool in the begin⯑ning of ſummer, when all his uncles and aunts, uſually re⯑ſident in Canterbury during the winter, had retired to their country reſidences. Mr. Berkeley ſoon preſented his humble petition to his Mother, that he might bring Thur⯑low [cxlvi] home ſometimes. The requeſt was granted; and the good diſpoſition, the propriety, the docility, the worthineſs of Mr. Thurlow, ſoon endeared him ſo much to Mrs. Berkeley, that ſhe told her Son ‘"he might bring Thurlow, but no other boy, without aſking her permiſſion, when⯑ever he pleaſed."’ The dear child generally drank tea every evening in winter at Dr. Berkeley's, for in ſummer they are all ‘"over the hills and far away."’ When he was a little more than nine years old, he, like his friend Mr. Berkeley, was ſent to France, for ſeveral months, to acquire the French language in perfection. At his return he gave a proof of the exquiſite ſenſibility of his heart^*. On his arrival in England, he went from Dover, for a ſhort time, to the houſe of his kind patron Mr. Hey, who ſoon brought him to Canterbury for a day. The in⯑ſtant he got out of the carriage he flew to the Oaks, knocked at the door, and begged he might be ſhown up to Mrs. Berkeley. Being told ſhe was in bed with a bad head⯑ach, he expreſſed much concern, and enquired what time ſhe [cxlvii] would riſe; the ſervant replied, ‘"moſt likely to dinner;"’ as ſhe never continued in bed, when not exceedingly ill. At a little before the dinner hour he came; Mrs. Berkeley not riſen. About five in the afternoon he called again, and, hearing Mrs. Berkeley was not up, begged to ſee her own maid, whom he thus addreſſed: ‘"Pray, be ſo good as to go up to Mrs. Berkeley, and give my tendereſt love to her; tell her, I long ſo much to ſee her, that I beg ſhe will permit me to go up, and ſtand a few minutes at her bed ſide, as I ſhall not be in Canterbury again theſe four days."’ The ſervant came up; Mrs. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"She was very ſorry, but hoped ſhe ſhould be able to ſee him the next time he came."’ The ſervant replied, ‘"Dear Madam, he is but a child, and he longs ſo to ſee you, it will half break his heart if he does not."’—‘"Well, poor dear child, let him come up then."’ The moment he reached the bed ſide he caught Mrs. Berkeley's hand, kiſſed it, and burſting into tears, kneeled down, and, after ſobbing ſome time, ſaid, ‘"I hope, my dear Madam, that you are not dangerouſly ill."’ Mrs. Berkeley, with her uſual good ſpirits in illneſs, replied, ‘"No, my dear Charles I hope in God I am not. I have the old proverb on my ſide, that nought is never in danger."’ What would not ſome perſons give for a ſon with ſuch an heart, and a moſt ex⯑cellent head? During his laſt lingering illneſs, at the houſe of his excellent uncle, the amiable, generous, kind⯑hearted [cxlviii] Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury, where every thing that kindneſs could ſuggeſt, and cleverneſs could execute, was prepared for him, he would perpetually ſay, ‘"Go to next door, with my beſt regards to Mrs. Berkeley, and beg her to ſend me ſomething, whatever ſhe pleaſes, out of her ſtore-room; I know I can eat that."’ Mr. Berkeley's earneſt requeſt to his Mother, who was to reach Canterbury after their arrival from Scotland many weeks before he could, being obliged to keep term at the Temple, was, ‘"Pray learn, and write me word immediately, whe⯑ther Thurlow is returned to England; and, if he is, where I may find him."’ Mrs. Berkeley, who uſed laughingly to ſay, ſhe was as obedient a Mother, after Mr. Berkeley grew up, as ſhe had made him a Son in his childhood and youth, obeyed, and ſoon executed her commiſſion, and Mr. Berkeley and Mr. Thurlow came down in the ſame chaiſe, one to the Oaks, the other to Wickham, on Chriſt⯑mas eve, the moſt dreadful, cold, ſnowing day one can re⯑member. Both were almoſt literally frozen when they ar⯑rived at Dr. Berkeley's; and it was an alarming time be⯑fore they ſeemed to feel any effect from what was given them.

Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley reproached Mr. Berkeley for not ſtopping all night at the PALACE of Mr. Simpſon, the Roſe at Sittingbourne, where every comfort, convenience, and [cxlix] elegance, is to be found from the excellent Maſter, Miſtreſs, and the wonderfully worthy Chamber-maid, Mrs. Mary Humphreys^*. It, however, pleaſed the mercy of God that the two friends received not the leaſt injury from this frightful journey. To adopt the language of the excellent Monſieur De Pontis in his delightfully entertaining, although pious, Mémoires (which that execrable monſter, Voltaire, has tried to perſuade fools and atheiſts is a fable, notwith⯑ſtanding Madame De Sevigné mentions his death, &c. at the time), God waited for them elſewhere; for dear Thur⯑low was doomed to fall an early victim to ENGLISH INHOSPITALITY, as himſelf related to Dr. Berkeley, whom he had ſo frequently heard celebrated the lovely hoſpitality [cl] of Scotland: ‘"I owe, ſaid he, my preſent illneſs to the want of it in England. I had been out hunting, was caught in a violent ſtorm, was quite wet through, called at a gentleman's, where I hoped to have been taken in. I was offered wine and brandy, the butler called, but no offer of a bed for a few hours, or of going in to dry my cloaths; ſo, after having ſat on my horſe, the ſtorm over, at the gate, in cold, wet cloaths, I proceeded to Cambridge, and went to my rooms; but the cold fixed on my lungs, and no ſkill has been able to remove it."’ Alas! it not long after removed him, and robbed his friends and the world of one of the moſt amiable-hearted, grateful of human beings. Adieu, dear youth. Requieſcat in pace.

When Mr. Thurlow was about eleven years old, his un⯑cle, the Biſhop of Durham, then Dean of Rocheſter, when paſſing through Canterbury to the ſea, and conceiving his old friend Dr. Berkeley's houſe to be the beſt, as he knew it was the ^*cheapeſt inn in Canterbury, drove to the [cli] Oaks. No ſooner was his arrival notified to Mrs. Berkeley, than ſhe ordered Mr. Wrightſon to go and tell his Maſter a perſon wanted to ſpeak to him. Mrs. Berkeley conjured him to permit her to ſend to Dr. Beauvoir's for dear Charles. Dr. Berkeley, with his uſual good-will to man and child, complied. John (now Mr. Wrightſon), as the beſt meſſenger, was diſpatched, to beg that Miſs Beauvoir would order Maſter Thurlow to be arrayed in his Sunday garb, and poſted off to Dr. Berkeley's, notifying the cauſe. Mrs. Berkeley ordered Mr. Wrightſon to call out his Maſ⯑ter when the little man arrived. Accordingly, in a few minutes, Dr. Berkeley, looking like a beautiful guardian⯑angel of thoſe ‘"little ones"’ mentioned by our bleſſed Lord, entered the drawing-room, leading in his little protegé, whom he preſented to the Dean. ‘"Here, my old friend, is a very good little man, who is very nearly related to you."’ [clii] The Dean looked about as éveillé as uſual, ſtroked his head, and aſked him how he liked ſchool, and ſome other queſtions generally put to children. In the afternoon he told him to ſtand by him at the card-table; and when the time arrived for Charles to make his bow and return to Dr. Beauvoir's, the Dean, who had won about a guinea, generouſly preſented poor dear Charles with two and ſixpence; for which he made one of his graceful French bows, and re⯑tired. They never met again, until they met in the regions of departed ſpirits. Some perſons have even doubted whether poor Thurlow could be found worthy of a place to behold the glory of the ‘"ANGEL of the Church of Durham."’ The reſemblance in face and perſon of Mr. Thurlow to the Bi⯑ſhop was remarkably ſtriking to all the company, allowing only that the tempers and diſpoſitions of his mind were entirely Lynch and Wake, which threw a look of benevo⯑lence into his features and countenance, which did not ap⯑pear in the Biſhop's.

About the year 1786 there died at Canterbury a very excellent young man, an old ſchool-fellow of Mr. Berkeley's, Mr. George Haſted, ſon of the Author of the Hiſtory of Kent. On Mr. Berkeley's arrival, in vacation-time, Mrs. Berkeley aſked her Son ‘"if he was not afflicted at the death of his old intimate, George Haſted?"’ He replied, ‘"I was very ſorry for the death of ſo very worthy a young man; but, my dear Mother, he was never an intimate [cliii] of mine. HE was much too ſtudious and diligent for us; was in quite another ſet: he pitied us for our idleneſs and folly. George Haſted would never go to cricket, or to Bingley (where the King's ſcholars ſwim in ſummer) till he had done every tittle of his exerciſe. We all ſet off, and left it to chance to get our exerciſe done, or, if not done, get a ſound flogging."’ Had Mr. Berkeley, when a boy, been told that nobody could learn Latin or Greek, he would have ſtudied night and day^*. Tell him, from five years old, of any thing that it was impoſſible to accom⯑pliſh, and he was indefatigable in labouring at it: his bro⯑ther juſt the reverſe. Perhaps never were two children, born of the ſame Father and Mother, more different: Mr. Berkeley would add, ‘"Always excepting my Mother and her only ſiſter."’

Mr. Berkeley, gay, lively, volatile, yet wonderfully ſolid; his brother, ſedate, grave, yet wonderfully witty; [cliv] both Poets from the time they could articulate at all; both enthuſiaſtic admirers of muſic. Neither Mr. Berkeley nor his brother were ever ſuffered to go to Bingley to ſwim, without their Mother's leave. Mr. Berkeley uſed to come regularly, when the maſters had given permiſſion to the boys, with his requeſt.

Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"I am afraid you will be drowned.’

Mr. B.—‘"No, I ſhall not.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Do any of the upper ſchool go?’

Mr. B.—‘"Yes.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Who? Does Mr. J. Tucker or Mr. Til⯑den go?’

Mr. B.—‘"Yes.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Well, then, go if you will; but I am afraid. You know Herbert Packe would have been drowned, if young Loftie had not ſaved him.—(Down he ſat, and took up a book.)—Well, child, why do not you go?’

Mr. B.—‘"No, I ſhall not go.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why not, now that I have given you leave?’

Mr. B.—‘"No, I ſhall not indeed.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why, what can I do more? Would you have me conduct you thither?’

[clv]Mr. B.—‘"No; but I ſhall not take ſuch a leave.’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why, what leave would you have?’

Mr. B.—‘"Why, ſay, in your good humoured ſweet voice, Yes, my dear Berkeley, you may go to Bingley this afternoon, and I had rather you went than ſtayed at home; or elſe I ſhall not go on any account."’

His brother coming with the ſame requeſt, and obtain⯑ing the forced permiſſion, would reply, ‘"Thank you, my dear Mamma,"’ fly out of the room, ſcamper down ſtairs, and ſet off, leſt the permiſſion ſhould be recalled, leaving the door wide open, and dart away under St. John's Arch. When paſſed that, he thought himſelf quite ſafe from being remanded. Yet, he was governed by a ſilk thread, whilſt his dear brother required ‘"a threefold cord."’

Mr. Berkeley, when a lad too old for correction, would, when his Mother deſired him not to go to ſuch a place, or do ſuch a thing, immediately reply, ‘"Well, then, my dear Madam, command me."’—‘"Command you, my dear; I do not love commanding. I never wiſh to exert my authority: I deſire that you will not do it."’—‘"Yes, I muſt; all the deſiring in the world will not do."’—‘"That is very ſtrange."’—‘"I cannot help it. Why won't you ſay, Berkeley, I command you not to do it?"’—The magic words, by his earneſt deſire, being uttered, he would ſay, ‘"Well, now I am happy; now I have not the leaſt wiſh in the world to do it; would not do it for any ſum of money."’ When he was about thirteen years old, the news of the day [clvi] was, a run-a-way match of a young man of rank. A gentle⯑man viſiting at Dr. Berkeley's, turned to Mr. Monck Berke⯑ley, and ſaid, ‘"Aye, in three or four years, young 'ſquire, you will be playing the ſame prank."’ It is impoſſible for any one then preſent to forget the dignified ſolemnity of Mr. Berkeley's countenance, whilſt he uttered the follow⯑ing reply: ‘"No, Sir, I hope not. GOD FORBID that I ſhould ever do ſo important a thing as MARRY without the full conſent of my Parents."’

Mr. Berkeley was certainly a very extraordinary proof of the bleſſed effects of education. A witty friend of the Editor's uſed to ſay, ‘"If God will but ſend Mrs. Berkeley's children a tolerable pair of eyes, and all their limbs, ſhe aſks no more^*: ſhe will trim them and twiſt them into handſome faces, and fine figures; but ſhe is not up to making eyes."’ Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, uſed often to divert his Father and friends, by drawing his Mother's [clvii] character—ſhe preſent. He uſed to ſay, ‘"My Mother has no mercy on her own ſex; but little for the other. Every fault, every defect, related of any young man, ſhe in⯑ſtantly replies, 'Poor creature, that was his mother's fault.' In ſhort, ſhe lays every fault, of every kind, ex⯑cept not writing a good Greek epigram, or Latin oration, on a man's Mother: but ſhe was an early ſtudier of Lord Halifax's Advice to a Daughter."’ He uſed to ſay, ‘"My Mother, I believe, keeps a folio ſheet of paper, with all the virtues of her friends emblazoned on one ſide, and their faults on the other. Whilſt they act worthily and honourably, you never ſuppoſe they have any fault or foible; let them but act unworthily to any one, and the paper is reverſed, and you hear all their faults. My Mother always carries a little cat-o-nine-tails in her pocket; and if any fool blaſphemes or ridicules Scrip⯑ture, out it comes, and he is very ſpeedily made the laugh of all the company. If my Mother was not my Mother, I would bribe her with five hun⯑dred pounds to become my friend."’ To which Mrs. Berkeley uſed to reply, ‘"You varlet, you know it would be all in vain; for your Mother would not be bribed to flatter Royalty any more than your Worſhip, who, thank God, will not condeſcend to flatter any one, although you often, by your benevolence and great perſonal ſince⯑rity, are led to cultivate intimacies with vaut-riens, male and female, ſome of rank among your own relations."’

[clviii] Of Mr. Monck Berkeley's genius many of thoſe who have redde what he has written may be competent judges. To attempt to do juſtice to the exquiſite amiability, generoſity, and nobleneſs of his heart, and the wonderful ſtrength and ſoundneſs of his judgement, even in early youth, requires the knowledge of the Editor, and the pen of his favourite Dr. Johnſon.

His attentions to the poor, from his childhood, were un⯑remitting. The arguments of his Mother to diſſuade him from waſting his alms on common beggars, thoſe hor⯑rid robbers of the honeſt labouring poor, were all in vain. His anſwer always was, ‘"My dear Madam, I am fully con⯑vinced of the truth of your reaſoning; and, I do believe, I never did relieve a common beggar in my life that was not a vaut-rein; yet, ſhould I ever hear that any poor creature had periſhed, who had aſked charity of me, and I had not relieved him, I know I never could forgive myſelf through life."’ So well was his character known to theſe wretches, that they frequently aſked in the village near which his Father reſided, ‘"If the 'Squire was at home, for if he is not, it is not worth while to turn out of the way to the houſe, as the Doctor and the Lady never give any thing to POOR TRAVELLERS."’ The fact is certain, that they never came but when Mr. Berkeley was in the country, which occaſioned Mrs. Berkeley's telling her Son, that they were his viſitors.

[clix] Mr. Berkeley, as has been obſerved above, was remarka⯑bly generous, and had what is commonly called a princely ſpirit. His beautiful brother was very ſaving, and even co⯑vetous; he never parted with his money, but to the poor, to whom he was very liberal indeed. So careful was he of his money, that it uſed to be a diverſion to his Father and Aunt to borrow ſixpence of him, and then tell him that they were poor, and could not pay him: he would go to his Mother, and deſire her to talk to them, and tell them, ‘"that it was not honeſt to borrow of people, and not pay them again, and that abſolutely he could not afford to loſe his money."’

Mr. Monck Berkeley, when a child, once went and ſold his buckles, to relieve a perſon in diſtreſs. When at Eton, being unable to relieve a very large poor family near Bray⯑wood Side, to whom his Father had been exceedingly bountiful, and the family being at Canterbury, he wrote to his Mother, ‘"I beg of you to ſend five or three guineas to theſe poor creatures. My couſin," (the very worthy Re⯑verend J. Hayes, then ſecond ſon of James Hayes, Eſquire, Berkeley's amiable protector and director when he went to Eton,) "and myſelf have given them all the money that we have; but they are very poor ſtill."’ Not getting an anſwer as ſoon as he wiſhed, he riſqued a flogging, and contrived, in company with an equally daring friend, to ſcamper over to Cookham; there he ſold his little poney, [clx] and ſent them the money. A youth going from Canter⯑bury School to Oxford, when Mr. Berkeley was about twelve years old, he preſented him with his watch, chain, and ſeal; for which being ſharply reproved by his Mother, he ſweetly replied, ‘"Why, I am but a boy, and he is going to be a man; and it muſt be unpleaſant to him not to have a watch, and I know he cannot afford to buy one, and I can contrive to ſhift without one."’ Such was ever the nature of this lovely young man.

Mr. Berkeley was, from his early youth, deſtined for the Bar; where, had it pleaſed God to have ſpared his life, and bleſſed him with health, he would, no doubt, have reached the acme of his profeſſion^*; for all who heard him ſpeak pronounced him eminently qualified to make a diſtin⯑guiſhed figure, unleſs his very ſtrict ideas of honeſty had pre⯑vented it. In early youth he had been earneſtly requeſted by his Mother, when arguing, never, for the ſake of argument, [clxi] to improve in logic, to undertake the wrong ſide of the queſtion, leſt it might warp his mind. He had ever moſt religiouſly adhered to this advice; and, in more advanced years, always declared, if he lived to ſpeak at the bar, which he early deter⯑mined he would not do until he had completed his twenty⯑eighth year^*, he would tell every client that applied to him, that, if he found his cauſe to be an unjuſt one, he would deſert it, even in Weſtminſter Hall. Mr. Berkeley had alſo firmly reſolved never to plead againſt the fatherleſs, the widow, or the clergy; and always to plead gratis for them, if their circumſtances required it.

It has been obſerved, that although Mr. Berkeley was highly indebted to what we commonly call Nature, with ſtrict propriety to the God of Nature, for a very uncom⯑monly fine underſtanding, quick ready wit, and, what does not always accompany it, a very extraordinary ſtrength and ſoundneſs of judgement, ſo as often to occaſion perſons to remark, that he had all the brilliancy of Biſhop Berkeley's imagination, and all the ſound, ſtrong judgement of Mr. Cherry, of whom the great Charles Leſlie, the celebrated controverſial writer, uſed to ſay, he thought God had not [clxii] beſtowed better judgement on man ſince the days of Solo⯑mon. When Mr. Berkeley, with all his great vivacity in early youth, often acted with the ſupremeſt caution, Mrs. Berkeley uſed, to the great diverſion of Dr. Berkeley, to ſay, ‘"It was a happy thing for her children, that ſhe in⯑troduced a little LEAD into the family; for, although pea⯑cocks feathers were exquiſitely beautiful, yet, unleſs tipped with a little weight, they naturally flew away to the Moon."’

Mr. Berkeley owed much alſo to education, to principles very early inſtilled into him; to which he profeſſed, long before, and during his laſt illneſs, he owed his greateſt happineſs in life, his only hope in the proſpect of death, un⯑til he, through the free ſovereign grace of God, and the rich mercy of Chriſt, arrived, by the inſtrumentality of a moſt excellent book, to aſſurance of faith, feeling the full force of that glorious promiſe of EMANUEL, ‘"Him that cometh to me I will in no wiſe caſt out."’ He was enabled to truſt, to go; and HAPPILY found, as all true penitents will, a moſt gracious reception. May all true penitents be ena⯑bled to make the trial, and they will moſt certainly rejoice through the countleſs ages of a bliſsful ETERNITY. But, alas! our adored Redeemer himſelf ſays, ‘"YE WILL NOT COME UNTO ME, THAT YE MAY HAVE LIFE."’ The Writer is well aware of the ridicule, contempt, &c. &c. that will be liberally beſtowed on her, on account of many things in this preface; [clxiii] yet, ever bearing in mind the admonition of an eminently pious Mother, never to be aſhamed of that God, who lived, who died, to redeem her; ever remembering his own emphatic admonition, ‘"Whoſoever ſhall be aſhamed of ME, and of My words, in this ADULTEROUS and ſinful generation, of him (or her) ſhall the Son of Man be aſhamed when he cometh in his own glory,"’ &c. At the age of ſeven⯑teen, going to ſpend a few weeks with a near relation, her Mother ſaid, ‘"The firſt thing for which you will be laughed at, is going to church on Sunday in the after⯑noon; yet never omit it. Your Mother has been laughed to ſcorn for it years ago."’ Then the above cited text was repeatedly enforced: and although the Writer, natu⯑rally the moſt ſhy of human beings amongſt ſtrangers, al⯑ways, when young, on entering the room, crowding her little inſignificant figure behind the door, that nobody might look at her^*; yet the firſt Sunday of her viſit ſhe encountered the loud laugh of ten or eleven gentlemen and ladies, for ſetting off to afternoon prayers. The lady at whoſe houſe ſhe was on a viſit, ſaid, ‘"Oh! the young la⯑dy's Mother has brought her up with wonderfully ſtrict notions of God and Religion; ſo I dare ſay ſhe will go."’ Go the young lady certainly did; but ſhe never remembers [clxiv] to have ſuffered more in her whole life, than in that firſt ſtruggle in the ſervice of her bleſſed Maſter, of her own never dying ſoul. Living many years in the firſt company cured that painful timidity. Converſing much with learned and good men ſoon enabled her to become more than a ſilent advocate for the honour of her bleſſed Maſter, when ridiculed by fooliſh ſcoffers; inſomuch as often to occaſion Mr. Monck Berkeley to ſay to his Father and friends, ‘"Few things delight me more than hearing my Mother trim an Infidel. Some Deiſtical fellow begins ſpouting out his nonſenſical blaſphemy to amuſe the company.—On he goes, without interruption; for I make it a point never to ſay a word, well knowing what he is going to meet with.—At length, down goes my Mother's needle-work; ſhe begins, and in a few words turns the laugh of all the company upon him, and the poor wretch never opens his mouth any more the remainder of the evening."’

This is a proof of the fulfilment of this promiſe of Chriſt to his faithful ſervants^*, ‘"I will give you a mouth, and wiſ⯑dom, [clxv] that all your adverſaries ſhall not be able to gainſay or re⯑ſiſt."’ As Mrs. Berkeley is not an Eliza Carter or a Mrs. Montagu, two of her reſpected old friends, but an unlettered female, who loſt a learned and wiſe Father when ſhe was eleven years old, who had ſet his heart on cultivating the minds of his daughters, had God ſpared his life until their leaving the ſchool of that throughly amiable, accompliſhed woman, the excellent Mrs. Sheeles; but, alas! they had been in Queen's Square but one year, before he went to hear thoſe bleſſed words, ‘"Well done, thou good and faithful ſer⯑vant,"’ &c. as perhaps one of the beſt, the moſt vigi⯑lant pariſh prieſts any where to be found, even half a cen⯑tury ago, for ſo long has he been removed. HE had redde St. Paul's Epiſtles to Timothy and Titus with good effect^*; for he never ſuffered ſin on any of his pariſhioners, how⯑ever [clxvi] high their rank or ſtation, ‘"unrebuked."’—‘"He was in⯑ſtant in ſeaſon and out of ſeaſon,"’ &c.

It is hoped the introduction of a little anecdote concern⯑ing the zeal of this worthy gentleman, for the ſalvation of his flock, may be excuſed. The wife of Mr. [...], a man of good fortune, in every ſenſe of the word a fine lady, was a little talked of as having a partiality for one of her men-ſervants. The excellent vicar took an early opportu⯑nity, when he knew her huſband was abſent, to call upon her; finding her alone, he ſoon began the ſubject. She heard him with ſeeming attention for ſome time; at length ſhe replied, ‘"Mr. Frinſham, you may ſave yourſelf any farther trouble about me; for I do aſſure you, Sir, that I mind what you ſay no more than the COALS on that fire."’ Mr. Frinſham mildly replied, ‘"Mrs. [...], I dare ſay, that often, during the courſe of my miniſtry, I may have met with many as inattentive hearers as your⯑ſelf; but I muſt tell you, that you are the firſt, the only perſon, who ever told me ſo."’ Then taking up his hat, he made a bow, and told her, he hoped God would, in time, bring her to a better ſtate of mind. He had the mortification to ſee her ſome years after die, as ſhe had lived; but he had the conſolation offered to watchful paſtors in Ezekiel, chapter xxxiii.

When the late Earl of Bute took Waltham Place, ſoon after his arrival, Mr. Frinſham, with ſome other gentlemen [clxvii] of the neighbourhood, made him a viſit. At taking leave, Lord Bute ſaid to Mr. Frinſham, ‘"Sir, I hope that we ſhall be good neighbours, as I have taken this houſe ſolely on account of your excellent amiable character."’ Perhaps one of the moſt beautiful letters ^* ever penned was by Lord Bute, on the death of, as he termed him, ‘"that dear delightful excellent friend."’ The Peer and the Paſtor generally met on the hill, or at the vale below, every day. Mr. Frinſham was as witty as he was good; in his youth the idol of all his acquaintance, as what is termed the fid⯑dle of the company, and to his lateſt day the moſt cheerful perſon of a large circle. He expired with a ſmile on his benign countenance, without even drawing a ſingle ſigh, at the age of fifty-four.

It is hoped, that the following little tribute of a grateful child to the beſt of Fathers will be pardoned. A few lines ſhall ſuffice. Not long after his obtaining prieſt's orders he became curate of Beaconsfield in Bucks, to a poor man of large fortune, but ſo weak in his underſtanding, that, when Mr. Frinſham was one Sunday confined with a raſh, Mr. N [...] attempted to do the duty, which he could not get through, and [clxviii] therefore came down and went home^*. The living being then on ſale, Mr. Frinſham much wiſhed his father to pur⯑chaſe it for him; the old gentleman ſtood for about a hun⯑dred and fifty or two hundred pounds. The Principal and Fellows of Magdalene College, Oxford, hearing of it, inſtantly paid down the ſum demanded; and, of courſe, for ever pre⯑cluded Mr. Frinſham from becoming rector, where he was only, not adored as curate; ſo powerfully had his perſuaſions wrought on the people of that place, that the wheeler, the blackſmith, the millener, yea, every trader, quitted their occupation, to attend Wedneſday, Friday, and Saints'-day prayers, ſo much as frequently to occaſion paſſengers en⯑quiring if there was any great wedding, that ſo many per⯑ſons were coming out of the church.

[clxix] Mr. Frinſham being what was called a Tory, and all his own and his lady's conſiderable relations, who could prefer him, being Whigs; he never obtained any more impor⯑tant preferment than the vicarage of White Waltham, a pariſh of ſixteen miles round, in Windſor Foreſt, of which his very learned and worthy ſucceſſor, the Reverend Dr. Dodwell, Canon of Saliſbury, and Archdeacon of Berks, ſaid he never made fifty pounds a year. Thus are many excellent miniſters of Chriſt provided for in this world, enough to make them take up the language of the great apoſtle St. Paul, and ſay, ‘"If in this life only we have hope in Chriſt, we are of ALL men moſt miſerable^*."’

[clxx] Mr. Frinſham, perhaps naturally the moſt contented-tempered of the fallen children of Adam, and the moſt hoſpitable, although he wiſhed not for a larger income, wiſhed for a larger, better houſe, in which to entertain his numerous friends and acquaintance. Rich and poor, high and low, all ate and drank at his houſe. The vicarage houſe at White Waltham was literally a very large old barn, with ſmall rooms on each ſide. The kitchen, how⯑ever, was not very ſmall, and was payed with curious Ro⯑man bricks, which might have conſoled his grandſon, Mr. Monck Berkeley, an enthuſiaſtical antiquary.

An anſwer of Mr. Frinſham to a letter written by his re⯑lation Sir [...] [...] to Mr. Frinſham, offering him a living of one hundred pounds per annum, with a good houſe, if he would promiſe faithfully, and MIGHT BE DEPENDED UPON^*, [clxxi] to vote always as Lord H [...] ſhould direct him, is ſtill carefully preſerved. His ſon-in-law, the late, as indepen⯑dent and ſpirited, Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, uſed to ſay, it merited to be written in letters of gold. Such were the WHIG miniſters of George the Second.

It is ſomewhat remarkable, that Mr. Frinſham never met with any ſerious affliction through life. The loſs of his beautiful mother, when he was five years old, was ſo ſup⯑plied by an excellent houſekeeper of his father's, that he ſcarcely felt it; and the death of his worthy father, at the age of eighty-one, not long before his own death, was an event to be expected at that age, although he died, as before mentioned, by caſualty. Mr. Frinſham was in⯑terred cloſe to his honoured father-in-law, Francis Cherry, Eſquire, within the railed burial place in Shotteſbrooke church-yard. He uſed to ſay, ‘"I am God's creature; he ſent me into the world when he pleaſed, and he will take me out how he pleaſes: and I am ſure it will be at the beſt time, in the beſt way."’ He dreaded nothing in life ſo much as loſing the beſt of wives, and the being left with two little girls, whom he humoured in every thing not in itſelf wrong.

Some proofs how much Mr. Berkeley was indebted to education may be gathered from his amiable humility as a lad, a youth, and a man, when it is conſidered that he was aſtoniſhingly proud whilſt a child.

[clxxii] When Mr. Monck Berkeley was aged three years and two months, his father went to reſide at Acton near Lon⯑don, a large living, preſented to him by his ONLY patron through life, the excellent Archbiſhop Secker, and which he ſo nobly reſigned, to a man, who, after making him repair the tithe barn, and letting him have about five hun⯑dred pounds' worth of new furniture and fixtures for an hun⯑dred and eighty pounds—(amongſt which was a harpſichord, that coſt Biſhop Berkeley ſeventy guineas, for four pounds—Mrs. Berkeley objected; but the Doctor, with his wonted generoſity, ſaid, ‘"he hated diſputes among clergy;"’ and therefore permitted him to have it at his own price)—after ſuffering the houſe to ſtand empty from Michaelmas to the end of April—came upon him with a long bill for dila⯑pidations, and proteſted a draught drawn on him by Dr. Berkeley for the money for the furniture. This naturally exaſperated the too generous mind that had been the ac⯑tual preſenter of the living; for no power on earth, no ho⯑nour, could have compelled any one to reſign it. But Dr. Berkeley one day aſking the Archbiſhop if his Grace meant he ſhould reſign Action on becoming Prebendary of Canter⯑bury, his reply was, ‘"Don't be in haſte. You muſt talk one day or other with Lord Hardwicke about it."’ Before any conference with Lord Hardwicke, the good Archbiſhop died; and the nice honour of Dr. Berkeley, without ever even ſeeing Lord Hardwick, made him reſign it to a couſin⯑german of his Lordſhip—a very different man from his [clxxiii] noble relation. A very intimate friend of Dr. Berkeley's, the excellent throughly Honourable and Reverend Mr. Ha⯑milton of Taplow, felt ſuch reſentment, that he conjured Dr. Berkeley to poſt the man every where. Mr. Ha⯑milton had one excellent rule; he never would call any man a gentleman, if in any inſtance he had acted unlike a gentleman.

In a very few days after the arrival of the family at Ac⯑ton, Mrs. Berkeley heard a moſt violent ſtamping and ſcreaming of her then only child. On enquiry into the cauſe, it was found to be, that Maſter Berkeley would not go to bed up the back ſtairs.

Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"What ails him?’

Servant.—‘"Why, you know, Madam, there is only one ſtair-caſe at Bray. But Maſter Berkeley ſays there are two here; and he obſerves, that my Maſter, and you, and all viſitors, go up the great ſtair-caſe, and only the ſervants up the back ſtairs; and that he is as good a gen⯑tleman as his Papa, although he is not ſo old; and that he will not go up the back ſtairs."’

An order was immediately made, and ſtrictly adhered to, that he was not, for a whole week, (a long time for a crea⯑ture of three feet high,) to preſume, in the day time, to go up or down the great ſtair-caſe to the dreſſing-room, to his Mamma, to read or play.

[clxxiv] When about four years old, Mr. Berkeley received a ſmart trimming, for a ſpeech to a once famous apothecary in Lon⯑don, who had retired to Acton, Mr. Sawtell, whoſe ap⯑pearance was rather againſt him. He attended Dr. Berke⯑ley when unwell, and Charles Stanley Monck, of Grange Gormonde, Eſquire, ill about four months at Dr. Berke⯑ley's with the whooping cough, which he brought from Eton School, and communicated to ^*poor Dr. Berkeley and his little boy. This proud deſcendant of fallen Adam thus accoſted him, ‘"Sir, if you were ever to ſtay here to din⯑ner, you muſt dine in the ſervants' hall, for you cannot [clxxv] be fit company for my Papa."’ Dr. Berkeley, ready to ſink with ſhame, flew to Mrs. Berkeley, ſaying, ‘"Surely, that chit is the proudeſt little being on earth. I muſt now really aſk the poor man one day to dinner, to ſhew that he has not heard any thing of the kind from you or me."’

Mr. Berkeley was always told, that a gentleman muſt never do mean or ſhabby actions. He reaſoned on the matter, and, in early infancy, drew ſuch wonderful conclu⯑ſions as thoſe juſt mentioned.

That both Mr. Berkeley and his Brother were, in very very early youth exceedingly proud is abſolutely certain, in their different ways; and that both became remarkably humble, by their Mother's adhering cloſely to the direc⯑tions given to parents in that wonderful book the Proverbs of Solomon, is equally certain.

The exquiſite lovelineſs of Mr. Monck Berkeley's nature led him, from an infant, to look with pity on all below him; but his dear Brother naturally looked with contempt. One day, when very young, going in the coach with their Mother to Marlow, as they paſſed a remarkably ſmall, mean⯑looking cottage at the foot of the hill, he exclaimed, ‘"My dear Mamma, look there: did you ever ſee ſo miſerable a looking hut? What kind of creatures muſt they be that [clxxvi] live in it?"’ Mrs. Berkeley threw terror into her coun⯑tenance, and ſaid, ‘"ROBERT! what have I juſt heard you ſay? Do you dare to deſpiſe any of your fellow creatures, or any mean-looking habitation? Have not you often redde in the Bible what our bleſſed Saviour ſaid, 'The foxes—(Now go on; he did ſo)—have holes, and the birds of the air have neſts; but the Son of Man has not where to lay his head."’—‘"Why did he come upon earth?"’—‘"To ſave ſinners."’—‘"Yes, ſuch a poor, proud, little wretch as you. And are you not very naughty to ſay what you have juſt ſaid?"’—‘"Yes, indeed, Mamma; and if God will forgive me this once, I will never do ſo again whilſt I live."’

Once paſſing a little chimney-ſweeper, about his own ſize, with the ſoot-bag at his back, he coiled up his noſe, and ſaid, ‘"What a poor dirty little creature it is!"’ His Mother acted terror as before, and aſked him, ‘"How he came to be ſo wicked? and if he knew how it came to paſs, that HE was not that poor little ſweep, and little ſweep Maſter Robert Berkeley."’ He replied, ‘"No."’—‘"Should you have liked it?"’—‘"No."’—‘"Do you think if God Almighty had aſked that little boy, whether he would be Dr. Berkeley's ſon, or the ſweep's, that he would not have choſen to have been born a gentleman? that Chriſt died to redeem from hell that little boy as well as himſelf, or one of the King's little ſons? that, as [clxxv] he had not even the merit of chooſing to come to Dr. Berkeley's inſtead of to old La-Looe, (the nick name of a chimney ſweeper, who ought now to enjoy a very good fortune in Bucks, if he had money to contend for it,) he ought to to be humble as a little dove, inſtead of being proud as Lucifer, and deſpiſing thoſe whom Providence, without any goodneſs of his, had placed below him."’ He wept, and ſaid, ‘"It was very wicked indeed; but, if God would pardon it, he would never deſpiſe dirty chil⯑dren again."’ The worthy woman who brought him up, was remarkably cleanly, and had made him ſo. He was exceedingly careful to keep his word; for if he were told of any thing that would offend God, no perſuaſion of the moſt eloquent could cauſe him to do it. Such admono⯑tions, until he grew towards manhood, were heard by his lovely brother, as they are by moſt other children, to uſe a cant phraſe, ‘"go in at one ear, and out at the other."’

The early ripe for glory are generally ſoon removed from this vale of tears. To uſe the beautiful language of Dean Hickes's Reformed Devotions:

[clxxvi] [...] [clxxv] [...]

[clxxvi] Mr. Berkeley and his brother were, whilſt children, always made, not to touch, but take off their hats to the pooreſt labourer in the village who ſaluted them; if ever they ſaw an old man or woman with a burden of wood, or leazed corn, to run to open the gate to let them through. They were made to treat the ſervants with the utmoſt civility, never daring to order them to do any thing, being always told, that they were not their ſervants, but their Father's: therefore they muſt always ſay, ‘"Pray, John (or Thomas), get me ſo or ſo."’ By inceſſant attention, and the utmoſt vigilance, their pride was kept under, and, in due time, by God's grace, eradicated.

It was no ſmall delight to his Mother, on his arrival in England, at the age of near twenty-two, that ſhe could ſcarcely go into any ſmall ſhop in Canterbury without hear⯑ing, from the maſter or miſtreſs, ‘"Oh! Madam, what a fine young gentleman Mr. Berkeley is; ſo condeſcending! he met my poor ſon, ſtopped, and aſked him, how he did? and hoped he went on well in the world. Who would have thought he would have done him the honour to remember him ſo many years?"’

Let it be remarked here, that Eccleſiaſtical Bodies do ſome good. At Canterbury, the Dean and Prebendaries pay for the education of fifty tradeſmen's ſons, find them books, &c. until they are eighteen or nineteen; and then, if they [clxxvii] wiſh it, raiſe a ſubſcription to ſend them to one of the Univerſities. Many other cathedrals have ſimilar charitable inſtitutions. This produces a ſort of honourable equality, as it enables the ſons of chairmen, footmen, &c. when ordained, to aſſociate with their ſuperiors in birth, perhaps not in learning.

Mr. Berkeley's amiability was the more remarked, as he quitted the King's School at the age of twelve, and his Father removed his family to his living in Weſt Kent the year following, and returned not to ſettle in Canterbury until the end of the year 1784; when it became his turn to take the offices. A good old ſhopman one day ſaid to Mrs. Berkeley, ‘"Ah! Madam, what a charming man Mr. Berkeley is. He was galloping towards Margate, looking like a young Lord, when one of our poor old neighbours was creeping along. He ſuddenly ſtopped his horſe, drew up to the cauſeway, and aſked him who he was, and if he was comfortable? He took out his purſe, and, not finding much ſilver, bade his ſervant lend him half a crown; which he gave to the poor man, and told him to call upon him if ever he wanted any thing:"’ adding, his eyes filling with tears, ‘"Lord bleſs him! where will you find another young gentleman, going galloping on his pleaſure, that will think ſo of the poor?"’ It proved to be the famous old News-carrier, of whom the fine print was ſold ſome years ago in Canterbury.

[clxxviii] The poor and diſtreſſed were ever the grand objects of his tender care. When at St. Andrew's, one night, at the play, the poor man who acted the king in the tragedy fainted away; and it had nearly been a real tragedy, as he had ſeveral ſmall children. On enquiry, it was found to be from inanition^*. Mr. Berkeley, on finding that to be the caſe, poſted off to his tutor, the very amiable (now Reverend) Mr. James Bruce, beſeeching him to go and relieve him on his account. On Mrs. Berkeley's ſaying, ‘"Why did not you go yourſelf, inſtead of routing out Mr. Bruce?"’ He wiſely replied, ‘"My dear Mother, the wo⯑man was exceedingly beautiful; and my going might have injured her fame, which, I hear, although an actreſs, is unſullied. So now you know why I got Bruce to go."’

[clxxix] Mr. Berkeley had certainly no offenſive pride diſcovera⯑ble to thoſe who knew him moſt intimately; for, what is uſually termed Family Pride is ſurely improperly ſo called. A man, that is deſcended from a King rather than from a cobler, from a Hero rather than from a Huckſter, may feel grateful to his Maker. Mr. Berkeley's Father felt it, his Grandfather felt it, and perhaps he felt it on becoming a Biſhop. Some friend ſaid, ‘"Your Lordſhip muſt now give purple liveries."’ To which the good Biſhop replied, ‘"No, Sir. My becoming a Biſhop will not make me give up what the domeſtics of my anceſtors have worn for centuries."’ Accordingly his epiſcopal livery was the yel⯑low green coat worne by the ſervants of his honourable re⯑lations, the Earl of Berkeley, Lord Berkeley of Stratton, his Brothers, &c. with royal, i.e. red purple waiſtcoats, &c. and the ſervants of his Sons he always made wear the crimſon waiſtcoat, &c. that he might not give up his fa⯑mily livery. Dr. Berkeley's coach being to be new painted, the coach-maker ſaid, ‘"To be ſure, Sir, you will have a cypher inſtead of your coat of arms. It is all the fa⯑ſhion."’ ‘"That may be, Sir; but, if you pleaſe, put on my coat. It is an old one, to be ſure. The cypher is very well for Nabobs and Planters, to ſave them trouble."’ It was a great diverſion, when Mr. Berkeley was ſeventeen or eighteen, to a lovely young lady, whoſe death Mr. Berkeley lamented in a moſt beautiful elegy, printed, but never ſold, to wink on Mrs. Berkeley, and ſay, ‘"Aye, one day or other [clxxx] Berkeley will marry a girl with an hundred thouſand pounds, and change his name to Hickenbottom."’ (Vide Kit Smart.) He uſed to ſtorm, and ſay, ‘"Harriet, hold your tongue: I will not change my name for a million."’ Mr. Addiſon ſays, ‘"Ancient family is a feather, but it is a feather that no man poſſeſſed of ever diſdained to ſtick in his cap."’

When the vile treatiſe on Education, written by that learned Atheiſt, the late Lord Kaimes, made its appearance, it was immediately in every hand. When Mr. Berkeley came to the part where Lord Kaimes ſpeaks of the Eton Montem, he ſtormed violently indeed; he felt l'eſprit du corps ſo violently as to amuſe all his friends. He aſſured his Father and the gentlemen of the agreeable ſociety of Cook⯑ham above deſcribed, that, had they been educated at Eton, they would feel equal indignation. His mother aſſured him, that men of forty-ſeven were rarely as irritable as youths of ſeventeen; to which Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"Well, Madam, I can tell you at what page of the book you will throw it by, and not read one line more."’ She, laughing, aſked, ‘"If Lord Kaimes had abuſed dear Mrs. Sheeles's ſchool?"’ He replied, ‘"Much worſe than that: I aſſure you, my dear Madam, with all your calmneſs, you will be ready to throw it into the fire."’ Mrs. Berkeley requeſted to be in⯑formed; but her Son politely declined it, ſaying, ‘"No; read on, my dear Madam."’ It is certain, that when ſhe [clxxxi] came to the page where Lord Kaimes ſays, ‘"I would adviſe you to be of the Chriſtian religion, becauſe it is (or it happens to be) the religion of the country where you were born,"’ Mrs. Berkeley verified her Son's prediction, for ſhe never thought it worth while to go on with ſuch a wretch on Education. His Lordſhip's Treatiſe on Huſbandry is an excellent work.

The following anecdote of that dreadful Atheiſt may be depended on as a fact. It was related to the Editor by a lady incapable of forging it, to whom it was related by an eye and ear witneſs of the ſcene. When a divorce has actually taken place, it is no ſcandal to ſpeak of the di⯑vorced female as having loſt her character. Lord Kaimes's daughter was married to Mr. Heron, a gentleman of very large fortune in Scotland, of moſt excellent cha⯑racter, and uncommonly amiable gentle manners, ſay all who have the happineſs of his acquaintance. The Editor was well acquainted with the elegant worthy Major Heron, his younger brother, when that favourite regiment, of Canterbury families of faſhion, the Scotch Greys, were quartered at Canterbury. This lady was at length detected, and gently and quietly ſent home to her WORTHY father, with a letter from her excellent injured huſband, ſtating her conduct. She reached her father's houſe in the afternoon. In the evening, after tea, Lord Kaimes walked up and down the room in ſilence, but appeared greatly agitated. [clxxxii] At length he exclaimed, ‘"Good God, child! how could you act thus? How could you bring me to ſuch ſhameful diſgrace?"’—‘"Why, my Lord, you have always told me, that there was no other world; that the idea of an here⯑after was all a JUGGLE of knaves and prieſts to keep fools in order; and, as I am not to be called to any account, but by the world—I preferred Mr. [...] to my huſ⯑band."’ This ſilenced his Lordſhip: he ſaid not a ſingle word more, and ſoon quitted the room. Mr. Heron, her much injured huſband, has, for many years, enjoyed great felicity with a lady very differently educated from the daughter of Lord Kaimes. May he long enjoy it!

In a few days after reading the book above mentioned, when the ſocial meeting happened to be at Dr. Berkeley's, juſt before tea, the very learned Mr. M [...] either took off the ſlab behind him, or out of his pocket a newſpaper (neither that amiable gentleman nor the Editor can recol⯑lect which; if it was Dr. Berkeley's paper, it was the St. James's Chronicle, as he was always partial to that paper, on account of his old fellow collegian, Mr. Colman), and began reading a letter to Lord Kaimes, concerning his very ſevere attack on Eton School, proving to the learned Lord, that he was totally ignorant of what he had been ſo groſly abuſing. Every one admired it exceedingly. Mr. M [...] ſaid, ‘"Why, Berkeley, this letter muſt delight you prodi⯑giouſly, ſurely. Eton is nobly vindicated indeed. The [clxxxiii] Writer is quite of your ſpirit."’ Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"To be ſure, every man educated there muſt be indignant to find himſelf and his friends ſtyled Highwaymen!"’ Mr. M [...] proceeded to read on, and ſaid, turning to Mrs. Berkeley, ‘"Why, I believe, Berkeley muſt have written this letter himſelf."’ To which Mrs. Berkeley replied, ‘"HE write ſuch a letter, poor dear ſoul! poor as I am, I would give a thouſand pounds that he could, three years hence, write ſuch a letter as that."’ To which Dr. Berke⯑ley added, ‘"Aye, poor fellow, I hope, if he is not idle, he may, in time, write as well as this Eton champion."’

About ſeven years afterwards Mr. Berkeley, ſitting con⯑verſing with his Mother in her dreſſing-room, ſaid, ‘"My dear Mother, do you remember, before we went to Scotland, a letter that M [...] redde us out of the newſpaper, expoſing Lord Kaimes's attack upon Eton School?"’

Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"Yes, very well.’

Mr. B.—‘"Do you remember his ſaying jocularly to you, that he believed that it was written by me?’

Mrs. B.—‘"Yes.’

Mr. B.—‘"And do you remember what anſwer you made?’

[clxxxiv]Mrs. B.—‘"Yes, that I would freely give a thouſand pounds that you were capable of writing that letter.’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, my dear Madam, perhaps it may now give you ſome little pleaſure to hear that your Bairn did write that letter, and that Lord Kaimes anſwered it, ac⯑knowledging that he had been in an error concerning the Eton Montem; adding, that he muſt have been an haſty writer to publiſh ſuch a cenſure on an ancient cuſtom ſanctioned by ſuch a man as Lord Camden, educated there, who always makes a point of attending, and being ROBBED^*, as Lord Kaimes terms it, of ten guineas; and of late years his Majeſty and the Queen. How any [clxxxv] man of any country could ſuppoſe, that the ſons, of men of the higheſt rank, and moſt antient families in England, would be permitted to act as he deſcribes, is marvel⯑lous."’

Mr. Berkeley, from the time he went to Eton, uſed very acutely to learn his Mother's opinion of any little thing he was going to publiſh in a Newſpaper or Magazine, without her even ſuſpecting him as the author, by ſaying, ‘"It was written by an Eton boy of his acquaintance;"’ leſt, as he told her when he grew up, maternal partiality might tempt her to think it clever when it was not ſo; or the ſame ten⯑derneſs might tempt her to wiſh it ſuppreſſed, leſt it ſhould expoſe him to ridicule.

On Mr. Berkeley's printing his "Maria, or The Gene⯑rous Ruſtic," written when he was only ſeventeen, the copies were ſent down to him. One day after dinner, he went to his ſtudy, and brought a copy of it in ſheets, ſay⯑ing. ‘"He would read ſomething that he hoped might amuſe his Father and the ladies."’ He began; and Dr. Berkeley, who had eyes like a lynx, ſeeing it in ſheets, im⯑mediately exclaimed, ‘"Good Heavens, child! what have you done? This is written by you. Surely, you have not gone and publiſhed ſome nonſenſe that will ruin your character as a writer before you are a man."’—‘"Why, I have never publiſhed any thing with my name yet."’ [clxxxvi] Mrs. Berkeley, mother-like, in agony to think that her idol had injured his fame as a writer, began lamenting his temerity. When the indignation of Dr. Berkeley and the lamentations of Mrs. Berkeley were a little ſubſided, be⯑cauſe they were almoſt out of breath, he ſaid, in the ſweeteſt voice and gentleſt manner, ‘"Well, I am very ſorry you are all ſo angry with me. I have done what I could to pleaſe you all. I have made the Marquis learned, to pleaſe my Father; and I have made Maria pious, to gratify my Mother."’ Mrs. Frinſham here interpoſed in her wonted way, ‘"My dear, I think it very beautiful; and I queſtion whether either of them could have written ſuch a book at your age. I am ſure I could not. Indeed I am not QUITE ſure I could do it now, that I am more than double your age."’ Mrs. Frinſham has a wonderful fund of true humour, which breaks forth on every occaſion, before the very few with whom ſhe will be intimately ac⯑quainted, being perhaps the moſt reſerved of human beings now that Lord [...] is dead; an excellent underſtand⯑ing, very highly cultivated by reading the beſt authors in various languages; and, to ſum up the character in few words, as it is frequently done by the grateful Editor, per⯑haps the beſt woman on earth now that her excellent Mo⯑ther is removed to heaven.

Matters being a little quieted by Mrs. Frinſham's inter⯑poſition, Mr. Berkeley ſaid to his Father, ‘"Well, Sir, al⯑though [clxxxvii] it is printed, I would not preſume to publiſh it without your permiſſion; and, if you diſapprove it, I will burn every copy but one. Indeed I have burnt a vaſt deal many months ago, before I printed it. All the Marquis's ſéjour in England and Wales, his remarks on Engliſh manners, cuſtoms, &c. I have deſtroyed. Indeed I have burnt near five times as much as I have printed; and, if you wiſh it, I will burn that."’ Here there was a triple cry of, ‘"Oh! no."’ But Dr. Berkeley aſked, ‘"My poor ſimple child, why would you not let me look it over and correct it?"’—‘"Alas, my dear Sir, I knew what would be its fate. You would have made a new book."’ A very juſt remark. Dr. Berkeley never could correct. He could write admirably, as the world has ſeen; but any thing ſent him to correct he always re-made, generally perhaps for the better—but then, as his Son, through life, uſed to tell him, ‘"Sir, the book is yours, not the man's whoſe name it bears."’—‘"But, if you KNEW that, why not let your Mother read and cor⯑rect it?"’—‘"Why, my dear Sir, for fear of getting my Mother into a ſcrape, for not ſhewing it to you."’

Uncorrected as it was, it has been ſo admired, that, ſe⯑ven years ago, half a guinea was paid for a miſerable, thumbed, dirty copy, only to be found in thoſe banes of induſtry, cleanlineſs, &c. &c. a little country-town circu⯑lating library. Mr. Berkeley was often preſſed to permit a [clxxxviii] ſecond edition; but his conſtant reply was, ‘"No; never whilſt my name is Berkeley. I was a great fool ever to let there be one; but I was young, and, of courſe, fooliſh."’

That there are great beauties in Maria is generally al⯑lowed; and that it has ſome conſiderable errors is certain. The calling the idea of a Marquis, even a French Marquis, marrying a little farmer's daughter, however worthy, being highly objectionable, ‘"one of the abſurd maxims of the world,"’ is what, at twenty, or before, Mr. Berkeley would have ex⯑punged. And on his Mother's pointing out to him how much better it would have been to have made her the daughter of a reduced officer, he ſaw the force of it; but replied, ‘"You know, my dear Madam, that by means of the nunneries in Popiſh countries every peaſant's daughter, living in the neighbourhood of a monaſtery, can, on very eaſy terms, have as good an education as a Duke's can."’ The ſtyling the wretched conſort of the Baron D'Arandar his Wife inſtead of his Lady, was impro⯑per; and on his Mother's expreſſing her aſtoniſhment, that he, who from infancy was well-bred and elegant, could be guilty of ſuch a vulgariſm, he replied, ‘"Mr. [...] (a gentleman then very intimate with Dr. Berkeley), always ridiculed thoſe who ſaid Lord and Lady [...], or Mr. [...] and his Lady."’ This gentleman, long before it became faſhionable, was a great advocate for Equality. [clxxxix] Mrs. Berkeley regretted the melancholy cataſtrophe of the amiable Marquis and the noble-ſouled Maria.

After Mr. Berkeley's return to England, he came one day to his Mother, and, enquiring if ſhe had a couple of hours to ſpare, ſat down, and began to read, in manuſcript, "The Spaniſh Memoirs," telling her, as they appeared on the ſtage, who the chief actors were; for Mr. Berkeley, in every novel or poem, celebrated or ſtigmatized ſome real exiſting character: thus, the hero of "Love and Nature," bears the title of Weſtmorland; Mr. Berkeley having al⯑ways reſpected the character of the preſent Earl of Weſt⯑morland, for his ſpirited wiſe conduct in quitting a great School, where he then could not learn any thing, for one where he could, and did, learn very much, and for other parts of his character. The late Earl of [...], whoſe pride, whoſe cruelty to very near relations, Mr. Berkeley from a youth deteſted, is held up to contempt, to hatred, in the perſon of the Duke D'Aranda, as he told his Mo⯑ther. When he had concluded, he deſired to hear his Mother's ſentiments of the work. She told him, ſhe liked it very well, untill ſhe came to the murder of Don Frederic ‘"Murder!"’ he exclaimed. ‘"My dear Madam, you have not been liſtening with your uſual attention to reading. Why, he is not murdered. He is caſt away, and drowned."’

[cxc]Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"Well, and what is that but mur⯑dering him, as you did the poor Marquis de Clerville and Maria? Indeed, worſe; for you leave this poor heroine alive to mourn to the end of the chapter. How can YOU practiſe ſuch cruelties?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, my dear Madam, I am glad you do not diſapprove any part but that innocent murder: I ſhall do myſelf the honour to ſend you a copy as ſoon as it is printed."’

Mrs. B.—‘"And I ſhall certainly do myſelf the honour to tuck it in between the bars of that grate, and burn it."’

Mr. B.—‘"Burn it, my dear Madam! No, no. I am ſure you will not ſerve me ſo."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Yes, I ſolemnly proteſt I will, without read⯑ing one line of it. You know I hate the idea of encou⯑raging melancholy on the mind. I have often told you, that, with Mr. Addiſon, in one of his beautiful hymns in the Spectator^*, I have always delighted that I could ſub⯑ſcribe to that lovely line:"Nor is the leaſt a chearful heart, "Which taſtes thoſe gifts with joy."’

[cxci] The next day Mr. Berkeley and his Mother dining alone, after the cloth was removed, he drew out the book, and ſaid, ‘"He had brought the concluſion of the Spaniſh Me⯑moirs to read to her."’ Mrs. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"She would not hear another tittle of them."’ He conjured her. She roſe to go. He ſaid, ‘"You will catch your death. The fire, I am ſure, does not burn well in the drawing-room."’ Mrs. Berkeley, being reſolute, got to the door. He pur⯑ſued, and, taking hold of her gown, ſaid, ‘"Well; ſuppoſe Don Frederic is not dead, will you ſtay and hear?"’

Mrs. B.—‘"Aye, but he is dead, and I will go."’

Mr. B.—‘"Will you ſtay, if I ſolemnly declare he is alive?"’

Mrs. B.—‘"Yes, becauſe I know you will not deceive me."’

Thoſe who have redde the Spaniſh Memoirs know how beautifully he is redivivus. Mr. Berkeley added, ‘"You have made me ſpoil it; but I cannot bear to do any thing that you do not approve."’

It has been mentioned above, that Mr. Berkeley was in⯑debted to Nature, or rather to the God of Nature, for a moſt lovely diſpoſition. A very ſhocking proof that a na⯑ture perhaps equally amiable (although not bleſſed with as [cxcii] ſtrong an underſtanding) may, by a bad education, dege⯑nerate into horrid cruelty of the meaneſt kind, is now daily ſeen in the Honourable [...] [...]. It was a common remark of Biſhop Berkeley, that the ſtrongeſt wine, if ill kept, became the ſoureſt vinegar.

The Editor was aſked within a few months, if ſhe was not acquainted with [...] [...]; to which replying in the affirmative, the gentleman anſwered, ‘"Then you know the meaneſt ſcoundrel upon earth; for he is now actually employed as a CRIMP."’ She lamented that a creature ſo lovely in very early youth ſhould, by bad educa⯑tion, have become ſo horridly, ſo ſhamefully depraved. One or two inſtances of the ſweetneſs, the delicacy of his mind, when a child, ſhall be related.

A very honeſt old woman, who had lived many years at Lord [...]'s, his father's, and had the care of him from his birth, dreſſed quite in the old ſtyle of wiſe ſervants fifty years ago; therefore looked a little old-faſhioned, about thirty years ago. Lady W [...], who viſited his mother often, uſed to laugh at this little man about the cut of nurſe's cap, &c. Children ſhould never be teazed; it in⯑jures, never corrects their tempers. It is not meant to do it: it only ſerves to ſhew the low wit of old ſimpletons. This hurt his then amiable heart ſo much, that when, as children uſually are, ſhe conveyed her charge to the eating⯑room [cxciii] whilſt ſhe dined, he uſed to ſay, ‘"My dear nurſe, when you have opened the door, ſlip behind it, for fear that ill-natured woman, Lady W [...], ſhould ſee you, and laugh at you, and make me cry."’

One day, when he was barely eight years old, Dr. Berkeley happening to be viſiting at Lord [...]'s, Lady [...], as ignorant ladies are apt to do, began railing againſt the univerſity of Oxford. The next time Lady [...] ſaw the Editor, ſhe ſaid, ‘"I muſt tell you a remark of your little favourite [...]. Your coach was hardly driven from the door, when he came and ſaid, 'Surely, my dear Mamma, when you abuſed Oxford ſo violently, you had quite forgot that Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Berkeley had been educated there a great many years, and muſt know it well."’ Dr. Berkeley was then about twenty-ſix years old, and had not long quitted that excellent univerſity; where, to be ſure, young fools, if not properly placed, may fall into miſchief, as in the army, the navy, and the mer⯑chant's or banker's counting-houſe.

Dr. Berkeley uſed every poſſible argument that a man of his ſenſe could deviſe, to perſuade Lord [...] to ſend Mr. [...] to Dr. Glaſſe at Harrow, underr whoſe care, a few years before, he being conſulted by the two Dowager Counteſſes, had been placed the late (not the laſt) Earl of Barrymore, and the preſent Earl of Maſſareen, and his [cxciv] brothers, the Honourable Meſſrs. Skeffington. Dr. Berke⯑ley was deſired by the ladies to fix the ſalary. The two peers paid each four hundred pounds a year; they had horſes kept for them: the others paid one hundred. But Lady [...], after deliberating ſome time, declared ſhe dreaded her ſon's being made too religious if he went to Dr. Glaſſe. She lived to feel, bitterly feel, the direful want of religion in two of her ſons. The eldeſt, immediately on his father's death, turning her out of the houſe in town, and the crimp merchant out of the villa near town; and had not the very worthy Counteſs of H [...]d, then go⯑ing out of town to make a viſit in the North, kindly lent hers, ſhe muſt have taken a lodging. Lady [...] was the moſt indulgent mother in the world; ſhe attended to her children's food, their phyſic, their warm cloathing, &c. but ſhe left the care of their ſouls to—SATAN, and HE was not wanting in his attentions. One of them had naturally a good underſtanding; but neither Lord nor Lady [...] were equal to the taſk of directing it aright, nor by any means equal to the ſtill much harder taſk of cultivating and directing weak Minds. Poor Lady!—ſhe lived to feel the threat of the Wiſe King ſorely verified: ‘"A child left to himſelf bringeth his MOTHER to ſhame^*;"’ which ſeems to imply, that in thoſe ignorant, unenlightened times the [cxcv] care of ſons devolved entirely, in the early part of life, on the MOTHER. The very ſenſible Lord Halifax, in his Ad⯑vice to a Daughter, ſpeaks excellently on this ſubject. This book muſt become very ſcarce, ſince a very learned gentleman, about a year ago, aſſured the Editor he had never even heard of ſuch a book. It is pity that more fa⯑thers do not put it early into the hands of their daughters. It might contribute greatly in preventing huſbands being obliged to exhibit many unhappy creatures at Doctors Commons and the Houſe of Lords. Between the Wiſe King and the Wiſe Peer, if both were duly ſtudied, young gentlemen and young ladies might certainly be very dif⯑ferent beings from what many in the preſent time are.

Solomon, when he ſays, ‘"Train up a child in the way he ſhould go, and when he is old he will not depart from it,"’ does by no means imply, that he ſhall not, through life, depart from it; he departed lamentably from it him⯑ſelf; but having, as we well know, received an excellent education from his pious preceptor, Nathan the prophet, he returned into the paths of virtue and piety before his death. The late Archdeacon of Berkſhire, the very learned Dr. Dodwell, in an excellent ſermon on ‘"One man in a thouſand have I found,"’ &c. told his audience, that pro⯑bably that great King owed the ſalvation of his ſoul to the admonitions of his beloved friend, the ſon of Nathan, who certainly, in thoſe times, when Monarchs were abſolutely [cxcvi] arbitrary, ‘"put his life in his hand, to ſave the ſoul of his ſovereign, by admoniſhing him to return to the paths of piety."’

It was an high act of friendſhip in the late excellent S [...]t [...]z, one of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber to a King who reigned over theſe realms not quite a century ago, to admoniſh his maſter frequently of the heinous ſin of adultery. To do the Britiſh Prince juſtice, although he did not like the Jewiſh Prince reform, he never reſented the liberty taken. The nick-name of this gentleman, before that of Methodiſt had, like Aaron's rod, ſwallowed up all others, was, Praying S [...]t [...]z. He prayed on earth; he is now praiſing in heaven.

So terrifying is the idea of being ſtyled a Methodiſt be⯑come of late, that within theſe few weeks the Editor (who never was in a Methodiſt meeting but once in her life, about twenty-five years ago, with a large party at Canterbury, to hear ſome dull abuſe from that accompliſhed old hypocrite, John Weſley) adviſing a young gentleman to read a ſmall portion of the Bible every day to his ſervants, replied, ‘"Oh! my dear Madam, I ſhould be reckoned a Methodiſt if it was known that I did it, and that would be ſad you know."’ How wretched muſt thoſe be who ſtand thus in awe of mortal man! How happy are they who fear nought [cxcvii] but God! That fear in due time will lead to ‘"perfect love, which,"’ as St. John ſays, ‘"caſteth out fear; for fear hath torment."’

To attempt to do juſtice to Mr. Monck Berkeley's grati⯑tude to many noble relations, friends, and connexions, from his firſt entrance into what is called life, would re⯑quire abilities far ſuperior to thoſe of an almoſt dying fe⯑male, by whom he had been taught from infancy, that he had no right to expect any thing but what is uſual, the common decent civilities of life, from any but his Parents; that every thing beyond that was to be repaid by gratitude, as more than his due.

His gratitude to the eminently learned Profeſſor Hunter of St. Andrew's, in offering Dr. Berkeley to become him⯑ſelf Mr. Berkeley's tutor, if Dr. Berkeley did not entirely approve of Mr. Bruce, an eleve of Mr. Hunter, was through life gratefully remembered by him; but Dr. Berkeley found the Profeſſor's character of Mr. Bruce to be perfectly juſt. Dr. Berkeley accordingly aſked Mr. Bruce the value of his whole time, deſired him to diſmiſs all his other pupils, and devote himſelf entirely to the care of Mr. Berkeley; which he did for a conſiderable time, until the arrival of his dear friend Mr. Grimſton, who came on Mr. Berkeley's account, and entered at St. Andrew's, and an old intimate Eton friend of Mr. Berkeley's in the ſame form with him there. Being all, as it is termed, reading the ſame books, they could [cxcviii] not interfere; and Mr. Berkeley, amiably wiſhing to benefit Mr. Bruce, whom he exceedingly loved, requeſted his Fa⯑ther to permit him to become tutor to thoſe two gentle⯑men only, from both of whom he received a large ſalary, which enabled him, a few years after, to enter at Emanuel College, Cambridge, under the protection of Dr. Berkeley's much loved and reſpected friend, the celebrated and worthy Dr. Farmer.

Mr. Berkeley's gratitude through life to thoſe who in⯑ſtructed him was uniform. He uſed to ſay, ‘"If I would not learn, that was not their fault."’ He uſed always to boaſt to his Father, ‘"Well, Sir, idle as you may think me, I can aſſert, with ſtricteſt truth, that I never have once bowed at Profeſſor Hill's, Hunter's, or indeed at any Profeſſor's lectures."’ An explanation being requeſted of the word bowing, it was thus given: ‘"Why, if any poor fellow has been a little idle, and is not prepared to ſpeak when called upon by the Profeſſor, he gets up and makes a reſpectful bow, and ſits down again."’

Mr. Berkeley's friendſhip for his very learned tutor, the Reverend Mr. Green, on whoſe ſole account he was by his Father ſent to Magdalene Hall, rather than to his own be⯑loved Chriſt Church, was very great. Mr. Berkeley conſi⯑dered him as the moſt active and vigilant of tutors, who would force young men to learn, whether ſo diſpoſed or [cxcix] not, and the great care he took of their morals, devoting almoſt the whole of his leiſure time to the common room.

Mr. Berkeley was bleſt with a wonderful ſagacity in diſcerning characters, and often exhibiting them to the di⯑verſion of his friends, even when the perſons whoſe cha⯑racters he drew were preſent. He uſed frequently to ſay to his Father and Aunt, ‘"Now I will treat you with an exhibition of my Mother laſt night at Mrs. [...]'s rout;"’ and then proceed, generally ſaying, ‘"Well! to be ſure my Mother is a woman by herſelf; for I believe the Almighty never formed any thing before her, or ever will any thing after her, like herſelf. The whole world cannot make her ſay a thing ſhe does not mean, make her anſwer a queſtion ſhe does not chooſe to anſwer, nor viſit any body ſhe does not chooſe to viſit, unleſs once or twice, where my Father has interpoſed his ROYAL AU⯑THORITY; then ſhe reluctantly ſets off."’ This latter part aroſe from Mrs. Berkeley's reſolution, through life, never to viſit any cook, houſe-maid, &c. who had been kind enough to live with a gentleman ſix or ſeven years be⯑fore ſhe was ſanctioned from Doctors Commons to ſtep into the coach and ſix, and ſit at the head of the table, and be careſſed by all the amiable virtuous dames in the neigh⯑bourhood. Mrs. Berkeley is by no means one of thoſe ſtyled by Mr. Addiſon ‘"the outrageouſly virtuous;"’ tout au contraire—and her kindneſs in reſtoring more than one fallen [cc] acquaintance, the wives of gentlemen, they gentlewomen, mothers of large families of young children, is well known to many who will read theſe ſheets through curioſity. But the caſe is widely different. Mary or Nan, if tolerably cunning wenches, reaſon thus: ‘"It is hit or miſs. If I live with the 'Squire ſeven years—if I can draw him in to marry me, why, I am a fine Laady for life; and if I can't, why I ſhall do juſt as well for Bob the Poſtillion."’ Agreed: but you ought not to be company for ladies of virtue, birth, and education; nor are ye, or ever ſhall be, for one inſignificant individual, who more than once, inſignificant as ſhe is, has mortified titled harlots of this de⯑ſcription. One indeed ſent to know what ſhe had done, that Mrs. Berkeley would not viſit her; and Mrs. Berkeley bade the lady tell her. Whether the lady did tell her or not muſt be gueſſed. The wife of a gentleman may be⯑have very fooliſhly, very idly; and it may, it muſt, be very difficult to aſcertain whether her conduct is criminal or not; and if her huſband (not a known ſcoundrel) does not give her up, her friends and neighbours ought not to do it. But with Mary and Nan and the 'Squire, there can⯑not remain a doubt, eſpecially when a poor little baſe-born brat appears, and is owned every year. It is the bounden duty of every ſincere ſervant of GOD to diſcountenance vice; let it be ſeriouſly remembered, that [...] himſelf ſays, ‘"Who will riſe up with me againſt the wicked, and take my part againſt the evil-doers?"’ Every individual, however hum⯑ble [cci] their ſtation in life, may enjoy that honour by brow⯑beating vice, as the worthy Dr. C [...]b [...]y, of M [...], did, when his neighbour, the late Lord C. urged him to viſit at [...] [...].

In a country where the QUESTION, as the torture uſed to be termed in France, i.e. the rack, is not allowed; Mrs. Berkeley did not think very highly of her own mental powers in reſolving not to anſwer any home-thruſt, as ſhe termed it, however it might excite the admiration of her clever Son, and ſenſible excellent friend, Mrs. Duncombe, the cultivated, the enlightened relict of the late very learned, amiable, Reverend John Duncombe, M.A. well known in the learned world, and of whom the great Mr. Burke once ſaid, ſpeaking of him, to the Editor, ‘"He was a very conſidera⯑ble man indeed."’ This lady, with whom the Editor eſteems it one of her greateſt earthly felicities that ſhe has lived in the ſtricteſt, the moſt uninterrupted friendſhip for the laſt twenty-five years of her life, that is, ever ſince the commencement of their acquaintance, and to whom ſhe feels herſelf deeply indebted for a thouſand amiable attentions, particularly during her laſt melancholy viſit to Canterbury—any attempt by ſo feeble a pen to celebrate the elêve of Mr. Richardſon, the friend of Mrs. Epictetus Carter, the relict of the abovenamed learned, well-informed Mr. Dun⯑combe, would be a vain effort, unleſs it were to ſing ‘"a hymn to my own praiſe and glory,"’ for having been ho⯑noured [ccii] with the friendſhip of ſuch a woman. Mrs. Dun⯑combe's own fine pen has, does celebrate her fame, her praiſe; long may ſhe live to uſe it, for the entertainment, the improvement, of thoſe who read what is worth reading. Her letters, carefully preſerved, if printed, would give the Engliſh a Madame Sevignée of their own nation. It is to be hoped, that ſome time or other they may be collected and given to the world^*, although in them would be found ſome very ſmart ſtrictures on the Writer of theſe pages. This lady, like Mr. Monck Berkeley, has often ſaid that the Editor had an art ſuperior to magic, in not being made to ſpeak when ſhe had not a mind to ſpeak. Mrs. Duncombe can, and Mr. Monck Berkeley could, alas! entertain very highly by ſpeaking—the Editor, it ſhould ſeem, by her ſilence.

[cciii] Mr. Berkeley, having been out of England for ſeveral months, on his return, as uſual, immediately paid his duty at home. After dinner, as he ſat chatting with his Mother, ſhe ſaid, ‘"Berkeley! your old friend, [...] [...], is married, ſince you left us, to Lord [...]'s niece, a very ſweet, pleaſing, young lady. But I am ſure you won't believe me, when I tell you, that it is a certain fact (no flam or fun ^* I aſſure you) that he wept like a child through the whole of the ceremony."’ Never, whilſt the Editor retains her reaſon, can ſhe forget the reception this ſpeech met from Mr. Berkeley. He lifted up his beautiful eyes, and, with the ſolemnity of a pious judge when he pronounces the ſentence of death, ſaid, ‘"Weep, my dear Mother! Well might he weep, poor fellow! I ſhall wonder if he ever does any thing but weep through life."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why ſo?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Why ſo? Why, becauſe three years ago he courted a gentleman's daughter to marry her, when the [cciv] Devil put it into his head to prevail with her to elope with him; and when he had got the poor creature to [...] [...] Houſe, he refuſed to marry her^*; and the poor unhappy girl, caſt off by her own family, has lived with him ever ſince, behaving in every other inſtance like an angel. Might he not well weep, my dear Mo⯑ther?"’

Mrs. Berkeley aſſured her Son, that ſhe had never heard a tittle of this dreadful buſineſs until he told it her.

Mr. B.—‘"Had I been in England, I would certainly have uſed all my poor rhetoric to have prevailed on him not to load his conſcience through life with ſuch a crime, but honourably, honeſtly marry her. The poor creature is, I hear, dying of a broken heart, for ſhe really loved the [ccv] little ſcoundrel. With all your ſaying that girls muſt beware of men, and take care of themſelves, and never truſt them, how often have I heard you applaud my grandfather's conduct with regard to his brother, who, having treated a lady of family in a ſimilar way, utterly refuſed to marry her, and many many years afterwards, when he went to viſit him at Cloyne, abſolutely refuſed to ſee him, al⯑though he was then become what the world calls a wor⯑thy man^*, but, during his two or three days viſit there, dined, as you have often and often heard my Father ſay, in the library by himſelf, and no intreaties of my Grand⯑mother or my Father could prevail upon him to ſee him, conſtantly ſaying, 'He is a genuine ſcoundrel. I truſt God will forgive him upon his repentance; but I will never ſee him whilſt I breathe.' And I am ſure you uſed to have as much horror of ſeduction as my grandfather, Where honourable propoſals had been made, how often have you rung in my ears the worthineſs of your excel⯑lent General H [...], who, having been educated in the moſt pious way, by his mother, Lady H [...], uſed to return the ridicule of his friends, when a young man in the guards, for his taking up with any drab, with, 'Well, well, you may laugh as you pleaſe; but I would not, for [ccvi] all this world has to give, have the ruin of an innocent woman to anſwer for."’

This excellent gentleman has, for near forty years, done due honour to his, alas! for this poor nation, very uncom⯑monly pious education,—family prayers every day, with the leſſons and pſalms of the day—and the Editor hears with pleaſure, that his exemplary care of his family is repaid, by that God whoſe doctrine ‘"he ſo beautifully adorns,"’ by the excellent conduct of his children. May they be ſpared to him! Long may he be ſpared a bleſſing to them!

Few men, perhaps, have ever been formed with more qualifications to make a complete orator than Mr. Berke⯑ley; a very uncommonly harmonious muſical voice, with, from an infant, the ſweeteſt tones imaginable, which he could at pleaſure elevate, like his grandfather, Biſhop Berkeley, to tremendous thunder; taught, from four years old, to repeat by heart, without rant or forced action, being told, after he properly underſtood the meaning of what he had learned, to repeat it as he felt it on his own mind; and being, from ſeven years old, accuſtomed to talk with delight of ſpeaking in Weſtminſter Hall; he took every op⯑portunity of improving himſelf.

When a boy at Canterbury School, which, as has been already obſerved, he quitted at twelve years old, during [ccvii] the ſeſſions for the city at the Guild-Hall, and for the county at the old Caſtle, Mr. Berkeley generally went without his dinner, flying off the inſtant the ſchool broke up to the court, to hear the pleadings. He once prevailed on his Father to permit him to go, attended by Mr. Wrightſon, under a ſtrict promiſe ‘"of doing every thing that John bade him,"’ to Maidſtone, to attend at the aſſizes. On his return home, he related all the cauſes and pleadings, and a particular in the ſumming up the evidence by Sir William Blackſtone, as accurately as if he had taken it all down in ſhort-hand, which he could not then do. He was, if the French expreſſion fort éveillié may be per⯑mitted to be tranſlated into Engliſh, the moſt awaked of all creatures. Nothing eſcaped him; he caught every thing he ſaw, and wiſhed to know, in a moment. One inſtance proves it very ſtrongly. Soon after he went to Eton he had a raging deſire to learn to fence, which his Father was reſolved he ſhould not do, until he attained to a certain age, fixed by him. All Mr. Berkeley's arguments that the Bi⯑ſhop had let his Father learn at fourteen were ineffectual; Dr. Berkeley ſaying, that many youths of faſhion were often killed by its ſtraining their lungs when they were too tender to bear it. Mr. Berkeley was, however, reſolved to learn what he could, as he afterwards told his Father, ſaying, ‘"I had little trouble when I did learn; for I uſed, inſtead of going to cricket, &c. to go regularly at the hours of learning, and fix myſelf like a ſtatue at the [ccviii] window."’ Whilſt the very worthy, reſpectable, univerſally reſpected Mr. Angelo was inſtructing his pupils, he uſed to ſay, ‘"I think I hardly came honeſtly by my ſkill in fencing. But Angelo is as worthy, amiable a man as ever lived; and, I dare ſay, did not grudge me what I ſo gleaned from his great ſkill."’

When Mr. Berkeley ſpoke his Prize Exerciſe in the Par⯑liament Hall at St. Andrews, before the then Chancellor of that Univerſity, the late Earl of Kinnoul; when all the prize exerciſes had been delivered, Lord Kinnoul went to Mr. Berkeley, and, embracing him, ſaid, ‘"I rejoice, Sir, to embrace the grandſon of my dear old friend, Bi⯑ſhop Berkeley, and to be able to ſay, that I never heard ſpeech ſo ſpoken from this pulpit ſince I have had the honour to be Chancellor here."’ Mr. Berkeley had redde his prize exerciſe near fifty times over to his Mother. Juſt before he went out, he conjured her to hear him once more, that he might lay his emphaſis exactly right. The requeſt was complied with.

Mr. Berkeley, together with his amiable, beloved friend, the late, learned Sir John Ramſey, and his dear friend, Mr. Lennard, frequently ſpent part of their vacation very pleaſantly at Lord Kinnoul's ſeat. A droll anecdote or two might be here related, particularly a ſcene in the Library; but this Preface is already too long, and the reader has, [ccix] perhaps, frequently exclaimed, ‘"What is all this chit-chat to me? I wiſh to read the great actions of great men."’ If ſo, according to the advice of the great Johnſon, and the little Editor, read Sir Francis Knollys's Hiſtory of the Turks, Marcus Antoninus, &c.

But to return from this digreſſion. It is impoſſible to omit an amiable attention of a young Scotch gentleman, who, with his wonderfully ſenſible younger brother Tho⯑mas, conſtantly attended the ſervice of the Church of England at Dr. Berkeley's, and who were frequently invited to viſit there. The young Laird of Logie-Almon came running into Mrs. Berkeley's dreſſing-room quite breath⯑leſs; he threw himſelf into a chair, and on Mrs. Berkeley's enquiring if he was ill, and aſking whether he would have any thing, he replied, ‘"No, my dear Madam; no. But I flew hither to tell you how delightfully Mr. Berkeley has ſpoken; and in what extacies Lord Kinnoul (one of the many guardians of this very pleaſing, amiable, young gentleman) ſaid to me, I thought it muſt delight you; ſo I ran every ſtep of the way, that I might be the firſt to tell you of it. I was ſadly frightened at firſt, poor Mr. Berkeley ^*trembled violently, and was ſo long before [ccx] he began to ſpeak, that I expected every moment, the Chancellor would ſay, Pray, Sir, begin; and that would have made him ten times worſe. But when he had once begun, he got courage, and went on nobly; and every body is aſtoniſhed."’ This young gentleman was at that time barely fifteen years old. May he, as a man, through life, be what he was in youth!

A very extraordinary circumſtance happened at the birth of this young gentleman. A very aged domeſtic of the Drummond family, many years more than an hundred, who lived in a little cot (by the bounty of the excellent Laird) on Logie-Almon eſtate, as ſoon as he heard that his dear Laird had a ſon, walked down about a mile to get a ſight of him. He was told the infant was aſleep. He re⯑turned the next day. The Laird walked out; Lady Ca⯑tharine feared letting the child be carried out of the room. He returned the day but one following: the Laird at home, ordered the infant down, to be viewed by worthy old Steel; who, taking him into his arms, ſaid, ‘"Lord, now letteſt thou thy ſervant depart in peace. I thank thee for having permitted me to ſee (the Editor thinks) the ſeventh [ccxi] generation of my dear old firſt maſter^*."’ The excellent Laird, equally delighted, ordered him refreſhment. He walked gently home, ſat down in his chair, ſaying, ‘"Now I am happy"’—and his faithful affectionate ſpirit took its flight without even a ſigh.

Thoſe medical gentlemen of ſkill, who heard the above fact (much ſpoken of at the time) agreed, that had he ſeen the young Laird on the firſt day when he went for that purpoſe, the ſpirit of the good old man had been freed three days ſooner; that his ardent deſire had detained it. One has frequently heard of ſimilar inſtances of the de⯑tention of the ſpirit in its earthly priſon for hours, even days. What a wonder is the ſpirit of man! How paſſing wonder HE who implants it in the curiouſly wrought priſon! The late very ſenſible, unfortunate, Honourable Colonel Nairne, a great collector, who had a fine print of old Steel, [ccxii] which Mr. Monck Berkeley purchaſed, with many other cu⯑rioſities, after his death, has frequently told the Editor, that the engraver miſtook in ſetting down his age, one hundred and nine, that it ought to have been one hundred and thirty-nine. One cannot help dropping a tear on the la⯑mentable fate of this very accompliſhed, well-informed man. His father, Lord Nairne, unfortunately engaged in the Re⯑bellion; the ſon fighting for the Hanover family. The firſt duty to which he was appointed, was to go and batter down his own noble magnificent caſtle. His late Majeſty, who knew him perſonally, was very deſirous to have given him a regiment and other bounties; but the Duke of Cumberland prevented it, by telling his Majeſty it was impoſſible a man who had ſuffered ſo much could ever forget or forgive it. Thus the deſperate, deſpairing, poor ſinner, thinks of an all-merciful Saviour; although he has repeat⯑edly declared, ‘"Him that cometh to me (i.e. during the ſtate of trial on earth) I will no wiſe caſt out."’—There is no SAVING repentance after death—whilſt we are on earth, he is a Sovereign, ‘"mighty to us: The Lamb of God, that taketh away the ſins of the world."’ The inſtant we quit the body, he becomes our Judge—the Lion of the tribe of Judah. The Editor is not a diſciple of the acute [...]; ſhe has redde Horbury, and thinks with Dr. Young,

[ccxiii] Indeed, ſo anxious was Mr. Berkeley to improve himſelf in public ſpeaking, that, with the permiſſion of Principal M'Cormick, of whoſe polite attentions to himſelf and the other Engliſh gentlemen ſtudents he always ſpoke in high terms^*, he inſtituted a Literarii Viginti, who were to meet and ſpeak for two or three hours in the evening, either once a week, or once a fortnight. The Principals, Profeſ⯑ſors, gentlemen of the city and neighbourhood, frequently honoured this little ſeminary of juvenile orators with their preſence. Two on each ſide were generally choſen to ſpeak and oppoſe; and every one, as in the Houſe of Commons, was permitted to riſe and ſpeak on either ſide. Thoſe appointed to ſpeak on the ſubject always carried a ſpeech prepared on paper. Mr. Berkeley uſed always to ſay, ‘"Hang that paper, I am ſo glad when I have done with it. When I throw my notes aſide, I can ſpeak with ſpi⯑rit. I hate to be hampered. I love to be, as the French ſay, coudes franches. I believe I ſhall do at the bar; for I feel twice the ſtrength after all my arguments are op⯑poſed [ccxiv] and pulled to pieces, that I do at going on without oppoſition; it animates, it inſpires me."’

One morning, after a Viginti evening, Mrs. Berkeley, walking out, was met by Profeſſors Hill, Hunter, Baron, and many others, who all congratulated her on the figure Mr. Berkeley had made the preceding evening amongſt the young orators. It would be waſting ink to ſay how much the heart of the Mother of an only child muſt have felt this commendation.

A rather laughable circumſtance occurred two or three days afterwards. Mrs. Berkeley, taking her uſual walk by the ſea, was met by a lady, who, after complimenting her on Mr. Berkeley's fine ſpeaking, added, ‘"and my ſon ſpoke too, and did pretty well, I hear."’ Mrs. Berkeley, who, as her Son always ſaid of her, ‘"would not flatter Royalty;"’ no, not her favourite ‘"Queen of Sheba, were ſhe now on earth;"’ ſaid, ‘"ſhe was glad to hear that ſweet [...] [...] had done ſo well."’ A moſt lovely excellent young man he was; and Mrs. Berkeley uſed frequently to ſay to him, as ſhe uſed to ſay to the angelic Mr. Montgomerie a dozen years before, ‘" [...] [...], if I had a daughter with an hundred thouſand pounds in her pocket, and you had only the coat on your back, ſuch as you are, I would beg the favour of you to marry her."’ Should any one read thus [ccxv] far, perhaps long ago they have done it, they will probably again exclaim, ‘"The creature is a FOOL! quite an IDIOT!"’ But the Editor never conceived any happineſs could ariſe from ſetting two ſacks of gold together, any more than that bread will be produced by ſetting two ſacks of wheat ſide by ſide. But to return. This wiſe lady proceeded, ‘"Well, Mrs. Berkeley; as both our ſons have ſpoken, and gained credit, let you and I make an agreement, that they ſhall not ſpeak any more, for fear they ſhould loſe the credit they have gained."’ To which Mrs. Berkeley, ob⯑ſerving the extreme cleverneſs of the ſpeaker, replied, ‘"Oh! dear Madam, you know you are ſole directreſs of [...] [...]; but, thank God, my Son has a much wiſer director than his Mother. Dr. Berkeley is a moſt excellent judge, and judicious director of young men's education; and I have no more idea of interfering in parts of my Son's education as a ſcholar, than I have of ſitting down to write a Viſitation or Aſſize Sermon for his Father; BUT I will certainly tell him what YOU, Madam, ſay."’ Mrs. Berkeley failed not to do it; BUT Mr. Berkeley went on ſpeaking, without loſing any of his credit as an orator. Two of the Scotch ſpeakers are now in England, the learned, entertaining, Reverend Mr. James Bruce, Mr. Berkeley's tutor, and the gentle, pleaſing Mr. William Kemp, tutor to Mr. Lennard, who was many years ago recommended, through Dr. Berkeley's recommendation, by his amiable friend, the late Lord Dacre, into the family of [ccxvi] the Earl of Beverley, where his uncommon merits as a tutor are felt, and moſt generouſly, moſt nobly rewarded, by the noble deſcendant of the great hero of Chevy-Chace.

Soon after Mr. Berkeley's return to England he began to feel an ardent deſire to obtain a ſeat in Parliament. How was that wiſh to be gratified? Biſhop Berkeley was too generous to amaſs a fortune. He conſtantly gave away with both hands. After thirty thouſand pounds debt paid by Mr. Berkeley's grandmother, Mrs. Frinſham, and her ſingle ſiſter, Mrs. Cherry, of their grandfather William Cherry, Eſquire, and eſtabliſhing, inſtead of taking, (as or⯑dered by him if wanted to pay his debts,) a very good eſtate left by him to found a charity ſchool in the pariſh of Bray in Berkſhire, where lay a large part of his vaſt eſtate^*. The South-Sea bubble had, although not beggared, [ccxvii] yet wonderfully reduced the large remainder of Mr. Cher⯑ry's fortune; ſo that, during the life of Mr. Berkeley's Mo⯑ther, he could not get a qualification that would ſit eaſy on his conſcience. His Mother, on learning this, offered to give up entirely into his hands her whole ſettlement, adding, ‘"I have, from your infancy, ever ſaid, 'If I muſt be abſo⯑lutely dependant on any fallen child of Adam, may it be on Berkeley! not on dear ſweet Robert; for Berkeley has a generoſity of ſoul that I have never ſeen in any human being, through my whole life, but in himſelf alone."’ On ſaying this he exclaimed, ‘"Jeſus avert that I ſhould be SUCH a villian. No; I would, were it ne⯑ceſſary, ſooner carry a brown muſket, than ever touch a ſix-pence of your ſettlement. It is too ſmall, we all know. No; never whilſt my name is Berkeley, will I ever di⯑miniſh it. It may, I hope, pleaſe God that I may live to add to it."’

On his coming home at vacation-time, he often men⯑tioned curious cauſes at Weſtminſter Hall and the Old Bai⯑ley. His Father one day ſaid, ‘"Berkeley, it does not ſeem to me that you go often to the Houſe of Commons. I ſhould think that you would be there perpetually."’

Mr. Berkeley.—‘"My dear Sir, I never go at all."’

Dr. B.—‘"Never go. How is that? I am ſure you know at leaſt half an hundred members that would take you in."’

[ccxviii]Mr. B.—‘"Yes, my dear Sir, I know men enough that would take me in every day if I would go; but I will not go. I dare not truſt myſelf."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Not truſt yourſelf! what, do you think you ſhould ſpring up and ſpeak?"’

Mr. B.—‘"No, my dear Madam, no; but I am afraid the Devil ſhould tempt me to long ſo much to get into Par⯑liament, that I ſhould deceive myſelf, and reaſon myſelf into a belief that a ſham qualification had no harm in it; and therefore, the Lord being my helper, I never will ſet foot in St. Stephen's Chapel, unleſs I can go thither properly authorized to ſpeak. So you will never hear any account from me of the orators there."’

Mr. Berkeley went perpetually to hear Haſtings's Trial. He told his Father, that ‘"after liſtening with all the atten⯑tion he was poſſeſſed of to the harangues of a certain great Orator, he conceived that his grand argument was a ſtrong arm, which enabled him to thump the table vio⯑lently^*."’ It muſt here be ſaid, that Mr. Berkeley was a [ccxix] ſtrenuous aſſertor of Mr. Haſtings's innocence. He had put himſelf to conſiderable expence to procure documents from India, and had prepared for the preſs, perhaps as ela⯑borate an inveſtigation of Mr. Haſtings's conduct and cha⯑racter, as beautiful a defence as was ever penned, which he, however, the day before it was to be ſent to the preſs, ſacrificed to paternal authority. He brought it to the Edi⯑tor, and, with tears in his eyes, threw it on her table, ſay⯑ing, ‘"There is a ſacrifice to duty. I beſeech you to take care of it. It coſt me many pounds and much time, and might have benefited, I think, an injured man. Do not let it be loſt; perhaps it may, ſome time or other, ſee the light."’ It is, as requeſted, ſtill carefully preſerved, [ccxx] with many other things of Mr. Berkeley's writing; for he was never idle but whilſt in company. When at his Fa⯑ther's, he retired ſoon after dinner, and immediately after tea. As he very ſeldom ate any ſupper, as ſoon as the cloth was removed, his ſervant notified it to him, and he came down and entertained his friends with his enliven⯑ing converſation, and ſometimes delighted the ſoul of his Mother, by complying with her requeſt to ſing to her the hymn ſung by the Eton College gentlemen. It begins ‘"Salvator Mundi,"’ &c.^*. until the ſervants came in to family prayers; after which he more frequently retired to ſtudy than to reſt.

Few perſons were ever more ſtrongly impreſſed with the terror of being called into judgement for idleneſs than Mr. Berkeley. During the latter part of his illneſs he would frequently exclaim, ‘"Lord, forgive me; what an idle life I do lead! Surely God will call me to account for it."’ His Mother aſſured him that [...] did not reſemble Pharaoh's taſk-maſters; that the work God had then appointed him to, was what he daily performed, bearing with the moſt perfect reſignation, and the ſweeteſt, cheerful ſubmiſſion, [ccxxi] his heavenly Father's gracious chaſtiſements, for which, when not in actual agony, he humbly, heartily, thanked God for ſending him.

Mr. Berkeley's delicate attentions to his Mother's feel⯑ings were throughly amiable. When he was about three and twenty, in the ſummer vacation he went down to his Fa⯑ther's, and one day ſaid to his Mother, ‘"I might have had a fine ſummer of it if I had pleaſed, for my friend [...] [...] preſſed me exceedingly to ſpend it with him. A ^* charming high phaëton and four in hand, a de⯑lightful neighbourhood, and near [...] [...]."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Well, my dear child, and why were you ſuch a ſimpleton as not to go?"’

Mr. B.—‘"No; I choſe rather to come and ſpend ſome part of it with you."’

Mrs. B.—‘"With me! how could you be ſuch a fool? Have not I always told you, as I uſed to tell your dear Father when he was young, if any pleaſant ſcheme pre⯑ſents itſelf, never to think you have a wife, but enjoy it. I will never expect you at home till I ſee you; only write [ccxxii] to me, that I may enjoy your happineſs by rebound. So I have always ſaid to you ſince you grew up. Do not think of your Mother. If you are happy, ſhe is ſo."’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, but, my dear Madam, the caſe is this: Some fellow or other would have told you that [...] [...] is a Deiſt; and they would have told you truth; and then you would have been wild for fear of your poor Bairne.’

Mrs. B.—‘"My dear, I honour, as I ever muſt, the ex⯑treme delicacy of your conduct towards your Mother from your childhood. But I ſhould not have been un⯑eaſy; for, I humbly thank God, I am perſuaded my Bairne is too well grounded to let even the arguments of ſo learned, ſo acute a man as [...] [...] have any influence on your faith, founded on the Rock of Ages."’

About two years before Mr. Berkeley's death his Mother ſaid, ‘"What is become of [...] [...]? I think I never hear you ſpeak of him now."’

Mr. B.—‘"Why no, my dear Mother, I very ſeldom ſee him. I found it quite impoſſible for me to do him any good, and I was reſolved that he ſhould not do me any harm; ſo by degrees I gently dropped him, intimate as we formerly were."’

[ccxxiii] The bleſſings of being throughly inſtructed, well⯑grounded in the true faith in early youth, is moſt beauti⯑fully deſcribed in a letter of the late Dr. Kenrick, Preben⯑dary of Weſtminſter, miniſter of Hambledown, father of the worthy Lady Gibbon. During Dr. Berkeley's reſidence in Scotland Mr. Berkeley brought his Mother a very dirty old Edinburgh magazine, with a leaf folded, ſaying, ‘"My dear Madam, there is a letter that will delight you."’ It was from Dr. Kenrick (the year forgot) it deſerves to be printed in letters of GOLD.

Mr. Berkeley, when ſtaying at his Father's houſe in Berkſhire, had books conſtantly from Bull's circulating li⯑brary at Bath, or from Hookham's. His amiable ſpirit led him always to order, that ſome of the allowed number ſhould be ſuch as would be pleaſant to his Mother. He one day coming down into the drawing-room to tea, with a book in his hand, ſaid, ‘"Obſerve, now, how perſons are rewarded for ſerving their friends. I ſent for this book ſolely on my Mother's account, not meaning to read three pages of it myſelf; for I am at preſent very buſy; and when I opened it to twirl over the leaves, I have been ſo charmed by it, that I have redde every line at⯑tentively; and, when my Mother has finiſhed it, I ſhall read it over again."’ This book was The CALVARY of the excellent Mr. Cumberland, juſt then publiſhed. Mr. Berkeley ſpoke of it, as it merits to be ſpoken of, in all [ccxxiv] companies. A learned critic once ſaid, ‘"Sir, I am ſur⯑prized to hear you ſpeak ſo very highly of it, who are cer⯑tainly a very excellent judge of poetry,"’ and began ob⯑jecting to ſome lines which he termed proſaic. At length Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"Well, Sir, it is poſſible there may be more piety than poetry in ſome of the lines; but I think it was worth being born, if it were only to have written that excellent work."’

A gentleman once ſaid to Dr. Berkeley, ‘"I wonder Mr. Berkeley is not as vain and conceited as he is high, ſo admired, ſo careſſed, and courted, as he is in town."’ Mr. Berkeley, in converſation at the other end of the room, overhearing it, broke off, and ſaid, ‘"Alas! Sir, no; Mr. Berkeley knows himſelf too well to be made vain. He knows what he is equal to, and can never be fool enough to be vain."’ His humility was great. When abroad, every marked attention that was ſhown to him by eminent men of great learning or high rank, he conſtantly, humbly, attributed to his being the grandſon of ſo great a man as Biſhop Berkeley, who was extremely well known and highly reſpected, as a wonderful genius, in France, Italy, and Ger⯑many. Before what a late blackguard publication has called ‘"a few lucky words of Mr. Pope's,"’ that great man, according to the account of his very old intimate friend, the late learned Richard Dalton, Eſquire, of Lincolnſhire, who, with Sir John James, accompanied Biſhop Berkeley to [ccxxv] America, was, at leaſt, ſixty-ſix years old when the ſaid ‘"lucky words"’ were written. Biſhop Berkeley was idolized in England—before he ſet off for America was offered a biſhopric—uſed to go to St. James's, two evenings in a week, to diſpute with Dr. Samuel Clarke before Queen Caroline, then Princeſs of Wales—had a magnificent gold medal preſented to him by his late Majeſty when Prince of Wales, as a keep-ſake, at the time that the Father of the ſaid PUBLICATOR^* was employed) it is to be hoped not in cheating) as bailiff by a noble relation of the Biſhop's. That noble Goliath in puniſhing ingratitude and ſaucineſs, Mr. Burke, has moſt happily introduced holy Job; he has not quoted one verſe, quoted below, for which, as he, Mr. Burke, ſays, ‘"we do not find Job reprehended."’

‘"Whoſe fathers I would have diſdained to have ſet with the dogs of the flock."’—Job, chap. xxx. verſe 1.

It is certain that when Bp. Berkeley dined at his noble relation's, Lady [...] [...], the father of this acute UNGRATEFUL Publicator did not dine at the ſame table with her Ladyſhip and the Biſhop. By the generoſity of [ccxxvi] Mr. Berkeley ^* one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, at dif⯑ferent times, were preſented to this Publicator, which muſt have been a pleaſant addition to a poor curacy. Poor Dr. Berkeley ſeems tacitly cenſured in the ſaid publication, for giving his honoured Patron ‘"no reſt until he preferred a parti⯑cular friend."’ The Editor has been repeatedly aſked who that was? and violent exclamation has conſtantly followed the anſwer. A gentleman, within this week, told the Editor, that Dr. Berkeley ſaid to him eighteen years ago, ‘"Until I had gotten preferment for [...], I uſed to receive all his publications bound in blue or green Morocco, magnificently gilt and lettered; but, ſince I have never received any even in boards."’ Dr. Berkeley, in procuring from Archbiſhop Secker preferment for the Reverend Mr. Andrews, the in⯑comparable anſwerer of Biſhop Warburton, ſerved the moſt grateful of men—farther this deponent ſaith not at preſent.

All the PUBLICATOR's letters, ſome very curious, were preſerved by Dr. Berkeley; ſome few were depoſited in the hands of the Editor, and are models of [...]. In one the PUBLICATOR tells Dr. Berkeley, ‘"I begin to think it time I got ſome Dignity in the Church, as I wiſh to keep a Carriage. I think I ſhould like a ſtall at Canterbury."’ It may, perhaps, not be impertinent to remark, that the [ccxxvii] Archbiſhop of Canterbury has only three ſtalls to diſpoſe of; and that at this time his Lady's nephew, the polite, elegant Dr. Benſon, and the ſon of his friend Biſhop Berkeley, were only poor Vicars, the one of Bray in Berks, the other of Shepherd-Well in Kent. The PUBLICATOR ſeems to have laboured to pour contempt on the name of BERKELEY; but it was renowned in hiſtory before he was born. Every one remembers the anſwer that poor Sir Roger de Coverley received from the Royaliſt when he enquired the way to Anne's Church, Soho, ‘"that ſhe was a Saint before he was born, and would be after he was hanged!!!^*"’

The Editor hopes that ſhe may not be doing what her honoured Father-in-law never would do, when he refuſed to make the leaſt anſwer to any of the ſcurrilous things written againſt him by that worſe than ſavage monſter Archbiſhop King of Dublin; Biſhop Berkeley ſaying, ‘"The noticing them would be like preſerving a dirty fly in AMBER."’ The Edi⯑tor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley relate the following ſtory from his father: This old monſter and Biſhop Berkeley, then Fellow of Dublin College, a little known in the learned world, were both at dinner in Dublin at the houſe of an Earl, whoſe title the Editor does not at preſent re⯑collect, but who had a beautiful Lady and an houſe full of remarkably fine children. During the time of dinner, half a ſcore of ſervants in waiting, this purpled brute ſaid, [ccxxviii] ‘"Whenever I ſee a parcel of fine children, I always look round the table to ſee which of the footmen is the father of them."’ With theſe words he threw his deviliſh eyes around the room. The Lay Peer muſt have been a ſaint not to have ordered his domeſtics to drag the ſpiritual one nine times through the kennel, and the Lady muſt have been either an angel or a fool not inſtantly to have riſen from table. They, however, contented themſelves with never admitting his GRACE within their doors any more. The late Dr. Berkeley uſed frequently to relate this and two or three other ſtories, in order, as he uſed to ſay to Mr. Berkeley, ‘"to call your Mother out."’ To be ſure, Mrs. Berkeley uſed to ſtorm nobly on theſe occaſions, to the great diverſion of her amiable huſband, who uſed to aſk ‘"What would SHE have done had ſhe been Lady [...]?"’ To which ſhe uſed to reply, ‘"Why never have viſited any woman who admitted that BRUTE into her drawing-room."’ An heavy puniſhment, to be ſure; but the Editor, inſignificant as ſhe is, has often mortified fine ladies, even of rank, in that way. She began early. About the age of twenty, ſoon after the death of her ex⯑cellent Mother, being with her younger ſiſter at a water⯑drinking place, Lady [...], who had done [...] [...] the favour to live with him five years previous to her being married to him, came thither, was viſited by every mortal; Lady [...], Lady [...], &c. &c. yet all this availed her poor Ladyſhip, with a ſet of horſes, [ccxxix] two men cooks, of whom ſhe made frequent mention, and about twenty thouſand pounds per annum, like Haman with Mordecai. Theſe two little inſignificant country gentleman's daughters would not viſit her Ladyſhip. They were told, that it was ridiculous, not to do it. Some of their relations, their ſuperiors, told them that they ought to do it. It availed not; they were as ſtubborn as two little mules. Well; but her Ladyſhip would, willi nilhi, conſtantly join the one who drank the waters every morn⯑ing, and converſe with her. She one morning ſaid, ‘"She computed all her ill health to a bad lying-in."’ FAME ſaid, that her Ladyſhip never had lain-in at all.

The Editor and her ſiſter always went to town every ſpring from Windſor, where they reſided before Mrs. Berkeley married, for about two months or ten weeks, to look about them, and prevent their being ruſticated. At Ranelagh, the Ridotto, &c. her Ladyſhip never failed to find them out, come to them, and make the kindeſt en⯑quiries. A woman of quality once, at an inſtallation at Windſor, ſaid to Mrs. Berkeley, then Miſs Frinſham, ‘"How comes it that you viſit Lady [...]?"’

Miſs Frinſham.—‘"I viſit her! who told you that I viſited her?"’

Lady [...] ‘"Nobody; but juſt now ſhe happened to ſee you, and ſaid, 'Oh! there is Miſs Frinſham; I muſt go, [ccxxx] and ſpeak to her directly;' and away ſhe buſtled. (Her Ladyſhip's gait was of that deſcription.) I thought, by her manner, that you were very intimate."’

Miſs Frinſham replied—‘"It was her own fault that ſhe did not enjoy that honour."’ The poor Lady is now no longer an inhabitant of this world.

Such contempt may the moſt inſignificant pour on VICE. It is not ſaying, ‘"Stand by thyſelf; I am holier than thou."’ God avert ſuch pride from every real child of God. The Editor who, during a courſe of forty years, has been frequently in ſuch ſkirmiſhes, has been often aſked ‘"If they may not be very penitent;"’ to which her conſtant reply is, the poet tells us, that ‘" 'Tis beſt repenting in a coach and ſix."’

But the Editor has no great idea of the houſe-maid or the kitchen-maid's repentance in the coach and ſix. Her peni⯑tents are ſuch as the late lovely Lady of [...] [...], who, having truſted that moſt agreeable of wretches too far, was ruined, and he compelled by Authority to marry her. She was, as country-folks in Berkſhire phraſe it, made an honeſt woman. But the Editor has been repeatedly told by an inti⯑mate excellent friend of hers, who conſtantly added, ‘"I had probably ſhared the ſame fate as Miſs [...], if my excellent Mother-in-law had not watched over me at eighteen, and [ccxxxi] never left me one minute alone with [...] [...];"’ adding, ‘"I am ſure, had my Mother been aſked whether ſhe would chooſe to leave me alone with [...] [...] or with a tiger, ſhe would not have heſitated to prefer the tiger."’ How different are mothers now, in theſe en⯑lightened days, to what they were fifty years ago! [...] [...] was of the ſly tiger kind, and ſeldom laid wait for his prey in vain. This excellent lady has often told the Editor, that after Miſs [...] was married, no one ever ſaw that ſhe had an eye, for ſhe never lifted thoſe beau⯑teous cauſes of her ſad fall, from the earth, ſcarce ever ſpoke in company, but little to her moſt intimate friends, and died of grief at the end of two years. Happily her worthy Son reſembles his Mother more than his Father. This was repentance although in a coach and ſix, which Miſs [...]'s ſituation in life might entitle her to, for ſhe was the daughter of a gentleman, and had a very good fortune.

Some few years ago Dr. Berkeley, going to ſpend ſome months at [...], Mr. Monck Berkeley ſaid to his Mo⯑ther, ‘"Now, my dear Mother, as ſoon as you get to [...], ſuch a lady (naming the name) will viſit you, and you muſt return her viſit. You muſt not know that ſhe broke her firſt huſband's heart by her flirtations with her preſent huſband, whom ſhe [...]."’ ‘"But all that is nothing, you know, to you."’—‘"No, my dear; but, I [ccxxxii] am afraid, it will be ſomewhat to her one day or other; and muſt is a bold word for any body to uſe to your Mo⯑ther, excepting it is your Father."’ He turned to his Father, and ſaid, ‘"I wiſhed to hear my Mother's ſentiments of that Lady."’

It has been ſaid before, that Mr. Berkeley could not reſt if he ſaw any creature in diſtreſs, from which it was poſſi⯑ble for him to relieve him. In the year 1787, during the long vacation, Mr. Berkeley, with two of his Temple friends, J. R. Baker, Eſquire, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and another, very ſenſible, amiable, young gentleman, now no more, took a trip to the continent. During their reſidence there, Mr. Berkeley had it in his power to aſſiſt, in a very awkward and unplea⯑ſant ſituation, a very worthy amiable perſonage of very high rank, his Serene Highneſs the then reigning Prince of Saxe Gotha, uncle to the King of England. The circumſtances attending this tranſaction are too long to be related here. In the veſſel the Prince ſaw and admired Mr. Berkeley's wonderfully curious Highland dog of a very ſcarce breed, ſo much as to make Mr. Berkeley often regret that he could not prevail upon himſelf to preſent him to his Serene High⯑neſs; but adding, ‘"My faithful companion ſo many hun⯑dred miles, in ſo many different countries, I found I could not part with OSCAR."’ Mr. Berkeley's honeſt Scot, Richie, did the honours of Oſcar, told his ſerene Highneſs many wonderful, yet actually true, ſtories of the [ccxxxiii] ſagacity, fidelity, prudence, of that lovely beaſt. On the diſcovery of the Duke's rank, poor Ritchie ſaid to his maſter, ‘"Laird, Sir, what an a ſad thing it is that I muſt lave ye!"’

Mr. Berkeley.—‘"Leave me, Ritchie! Why muſt you leave me? Have you got a better place, laddy?"’

Ritchie.—‘"No, Sir, no; but I can never go back to England."’

Mr. B.—‘"Why not, Ritchie?"’

Ritchie.—‘"Why, Sir, that elderly gentleman that talked ſo much to you is the King's uncle: Laird have mercy upon me, and that ever I ſhould not know it, and ſhould dare to talk to him ſo about the dog—to be ſure, the King will have me hanged if I go back to England. I will ſtay till you go, and then contrive, if I can, to ſlip into Scotland."’

Mr. Berkeley anſwered for his Majeſty; but ſome of Mr. Berkeley's Engliſh friends, to divert themſelves, encouraged poor Ritchie's fears. His Serene Highneſs at parting ex⯑preſſed his gratitude for Mr. Berkeley's ſervices, and moſt condeſcendingly ſaid, ‘"I find, Sir, that you are a great traveller. I hope, ſometime or other, that curioſity (al⯑though we have not much of curious) may lead you to my Court, where I ſhall be moſt happy to return your [ccxxxiv] wonderfully kind attentions to me by every reſpect in my power."’

Mr. Berkeley uſed often to ſay, ‘"Ritchie is a true Scot, he will not own that he ſees (like the pumkins in the ^* Duke of Argyle's garden) any thing of any kind better in England than in Scotland."’ One day, when Mr. Berkeley came down to dinner, he ſaid, ‘"Well, I muſt confeſs, Ritchie has at length vanquiſhed me, juſt when I plumed myſelf on victory. As he was dreſſing my hair, juſt now, it occurred to me I will aſk Richie, if ever he ſaw a cruſade in Scotland, and ſee if he will anſwer, O yes, Sir, in the Loodons, i. e. the Lothians. I put the queſtion, Ritchie, did you ever ſee a cruſade?"’

Ritchie.—‘"Cruſade, Sir? what an a thing is it? is it any beaſty?"’ i. e. a beaſt.

Mr. B.—‘"No; it is a great number of people collected together to go to Jeruſalem to recover it out of the hands of the Infidels."’

Ritchie.—‘"O! yes, Sir; I have ſeen that in the Loo⯑dons (his native county). When you were in Edinburgh laſt, you gave me leave to viſit my friends; and I heard [ccxxxv] of them, and went to the wood where they were all waiting to go to Jeruſalem."’

Mr. Berkeley then recollected to have heard in Edin⯑burgh, that there were a few deluded poor creatures who had aſſembled themſelves in a wood, expecting to be con⯑veyed through the air to the Holy Land. Their numbers increaſed prodigiouſly afterwards, as was related, and a long account was given of them in ſome Magazine, the Editor thinks the Gentleman's. What became of theſe poor de⯑luded ſouls ſhe does not recollect to have heard; but Mr. Berkeley, laughing, ſaid, ‘"I muſt now give it up as a gone cauſe, the hope of finding out any thing Ritchie has not ſeen in the Loodons."’

The PUBLICATOR, as mentioned before, very ſoon found out that he did not like the ſituation of his living. Poor Dr. Berkeley was worried to beſiege good Archbiſhop Secker to exchange it for another; one with a better houſe, and much better income, was ſoon given to this ‘"particular,"’ this GRATEFUL friend; where he commenced his ac⯑quaintance, and, by the elegance of his manners, ſoon formed that intimacy with the preſent Sir Edward Dering, Baronet, of Surrenden, which, for many months, afforded ſo much amuſement in Weſt Kent, and even in Eaſt Kent. His contentions with that gentleman, concerning game, could not be that he might ſend ſome to his friend, Dr. [ccxxxvi] Berkeley; for he never, in his whole life, ſent him even a lark.

Some time after the PUBLICATOR had been gratified by the exchange of his living, Dr. Berkeley went, as he frequently did, to make a viſit of ſome weeks at Lambeth. The firſt day at dinner his Grace accoſted him thus: ‘"Dr. Berkeley, I HEAR that your friend Mr. [...] has been in town for about a fortnight. I hear it, for I can⯑not ſay I ſaw him. He did not find his way to Lam⯑beth."’ Poor Dr. Berkeley ſat abaſhed at, as he termed it, the brutal folly, to ſay nothing of the ingratitude, of this particular friend, and replied, ‘"I hope that your Grace muſt have been miſinformed."’—‘"No, my good young gentleman, I have not been miſinformed;" (then quickening his voice, as he frequently did;) "for he was ſeen driving over Weſtminſter-bridge in a hackney-coach," (the Publicator had not then a carriage of his own;) "and," (quickening his voice ſtill more) "in many other parts of the town."’ To this no anſwer could poſſibly be made. A mourne ſilence followed, until broken by that lovelieſt of women, the angelic, the incomparable Miſs Talbot, who, to relieve her diſtreſſed friend, introduced ſome pleaſanter ſubject, than the marvellous (as Dr. Berkeley termed it) conduct of the particular friend. Dr. Berkeley, at his return home, appeared extemely chagrined on re⯑lating it.

[ccxxxvii] Some time after, on taxing the Publicator with his un⯑accountably ſtrange conduct, he excuſed himſelf very cle⯑verly, by ſaying, ‘"Aye, I believe I ſhould have gone, but I had not time; for, to tell you the truth, I went to London (always to a friend's houſe) to ſhew Beely and Peggy the wax-work, and the monuments, and the lions, and every thing."’ It was very lucky that it did not occur to him to carry Beely and Peggy to dinner with his Grace on a public day, and ſhew them the Lollards Tower there.

The Publicator ſeems to have taken pains to tack at the very end of the liſt of Biſhop Horne's friend's Dr. (then George Berkeley, Eſquire)—a real Eſquire, from his poor, unknown Father's rank in life, and expending every year at Oxford, as he has repeatedly told the Editor,—not in vice, She is ſure, as his excellent Father ſaid, when, on his arrival in Oxford, Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"I am aſhamed, my Lord, to ſay that I have ſpent ſix hundred pounds in four months—here is the account."’ The Biſhop made the above generous reply, ‘"Not in vice, I am ſure, child,"’ and threw the account into the fire. It was great part in virtue. A ſervant to wait on himſelf, and a groom for his horſes, could not be reckoned extravagant. A young man, who never taſted wine, could not ſpend more than a thouſand pounds per annum; but, having never been, according to his Son, buffeted through a public ſchool, and being quite unacquainted with charac⯑ters, he was perpetually impoſed on by deſigning, ungrate⯑ful, [ccxxxviii] young men, to whom he was too bountiful, as appears by his accounts, now in the Editor's poſſeſſion, from the day he arrived at Chriſt Church. He is receiving his re⯑ward; they, no doubt, will receive theirs. Much went in charity to real, frequently unknown, objects.

The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley ſay, that one morning at Chriſt Church, his ſervant ſhaving him, he redde a ſermon preached on charity for lying-in women in Alderſgate-Street. The preacher, the Editor thinks a Pre⯑late, deſcribed the miſeries of poor women in thoſe circum⯑ſtances ſo pathetically, that Dr. Berkeley ſaid ‘"I, a young man, had never thought on. I felt it ſo ſtrongly, that, with one half of my chin unſhaved, I made my ſervant lay down the razor, catched up a ſheet of paper, wrote to my banker an order to pay to the treaſure of the hoſpital fifty pounds, to make me a governor for life, for fear I ſhould be at any time unwilling to pay the annual ſub⯑ſcription."’

Some Scotch friend, the Editor has not been able to diſ⯑diſcover who has celebrated Dr. Berkeley's charities to the poor, during his ſéjour with his Son at the Univerſity of St. Andrew's, ſaying, ‘"that he every year gave away above two hundred pounds with his own hands."’ This is a miſtake. He very ſeldom did give with his own elegant hands, unleſs his wife's may be called his own; for unleſs, [ccxxxix] which was frequently the caſe, he incloſed in a blank cover a ten, often a twenty pound bank note, to any perſon, una⯑ble to aſk, though not to receive charity, whoſe face he had never ſeen, only heard from good authority of their diſtreſs. How often has he thus ‘"made the widow's heart to ſing for joy,"’ and with holy Job ‘"the bleſſing of him that was ready to periſh came upon him."’ In other inſtances, with regard to the ſurrounding poor, he always left the pleaſing taſk on Mrs. Berkeley; conſtantly ſaying, ‘"I never trouble myſelf; my wife is my almoner;"’ adding, as Mrs. Berkeley once ſaid to her excellent kind friend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canterbury, on his aſking her con⯑cerning a poor old man, ‘"I know nothing of him; when once I have introduced an object of charity to you, or Mrs. Tatton, (one of the charitable daughters of the nobly charitable Dean and Mrs. Lynch,) I never trouble myſelf any more about them, but ſearch out ſome new objects, well knowing that they will have ample abundant care taken of them."’

A Scotch miniſter was once celebrating to Mrs. Berkeley the vaſt charities of the LATE Earl of Lauderdale—a very worthy Nobleman HE was. He began by ſaying, ‘"His cha⯑rities are amazingly great indeed. As ſurely as you ſit there, Madam, that man puts a guinea into the plate, (a plate at every kirk door, guarded by two ruling elders,) [ccxl] every Sabbath day, and every year three guineas at the Occaſion ^*."’

Mrs. Berkeley replied, ‘"Lord Lauderdale has, I know, not a large paternal eſtate; but he married a very worthy friend of mine, the daughter of Sir Thomas Loombe, with an Engliſh fortune of four thouſand pounds per annum, ſo that lending fifty-three guineas an⯑nually to the Lord I do not conſider as being ſo very bountiful as you Sir, do. I will now tell you of a bountiful donor to the poor, the late Dean of Canter⯑bury, father to our equally charitable, amiable ambaſſa⯑dor at Turin, Sir William Lynch. The Dean had a large paternal eſtate, married one of the daughters of Archbiſhop Wake with a large fortune, and had conſi⯑derable church preferment: now gueſs what he gave an⯑nually to the poor."’

Scotch Miniſter.—‘"I cannot tell."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Gueſs."’

Scotch Min.—‘"Why, perhaps he might give them a hundred pounds a year."’

[ccxli]Mr. B.—‘"No; but he gave them nearer to a thou⯑ſand; for of all his vaſt income, it is univerſally known at Canterbury, and forty miles round, that he conſtantly gave to the poor ten pounds out of every hundred he received, from whatever quarter it came, beſide all ſort of good things made for the ſick poor in his kitchen and ſtore-room. And to this, that he kept open houſe for rich and poor; and when the ſilk manufactory (now, alas! no more) was at a low ebb, he nobly aſked, 'Will my new furniſhing the deanery with ſilk damaſk help to raiſe it?' and being anſwered in the affirmative, he inſtantly ordered five hundred pounds worth of furni⯑ture damaſk to be wove, which ſaved it at that time."’

It is to be hoped, when a ſcore or two more of ladies have been burnt to death by wearing muſlin gowns in win⯑ter (abſurd, ridiculous, fooliſh faſhions) that the Editor's poor honeſt quondam neighbours may again uſe their looms. If the Editor's leiſure had permitted, ſhe would have adviſed them, in the Canterbury news-papers, not to elect any member to repreſent their antient city in the new Parliament, who would not promiſe to make his wife and daughters wear ſilk gowns, at leaſt during the winter ſeaſon. The Inhabitants of Canterbury are ſurely as reſpectable as thoſe of Mancheſter, who will not admit of their printed⯑linens being ſlightly taxed.

[ccxlii] The Editor has had occaſion to remark that the PUBLI⯑CATOR was not very forward to make any grateful return for any favour beſtowed on him; for he never preſented his friend Dr. Berkeley even with a lark^*. It is com⯑monly ſaid, that in the county of Berks during the partridge ſeaſon there are as many guns as birds; therefore game is always a moſt agreeable preſent, eſpecially to thoſe who keep much company; and frequently, in their ſeveral ſea⯑ſons, would arrive hares, partridges, pheaſants, &c. from the very grateful Mr. Andrews, of Marden in Kent. He never ſuffered any neighbour to go to London without re⯑queſting him to take ſome game, and ſend it down by the Maidenhead coach. The year that Archbiſhop Secker preſented Mr. Andrews to this living, apples ſailed in every county of England except Kent; which is no great wonder, ſince the farmers of that county pay moſt careful attention to their trees in winter, clearing them of all dead wood, moſs, &c. Mr. Andrews packed up his whole crop of apples in hampers, and ſent them all, except a very few ſtinted ones. Apples that year were ſuch rarities, that Mrs. Berkeley ſuggeſted to Dr. Berkeley to ſend them to Lambeth Palace; which was ſpeedily done, a few only be⯑ing reſerved as curioſities; and a moſt acceptable offering they proved. Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley going to make ſome ſtay at Lambeth Palace ſoon after, the firſt day after din⯑ner from ſome apples being on the table, the Archbiſhop, with [ccxliii] his wonted politeneſs, ſaid, ‘"Lady and Gentleman, will you not eat ſome of your own fine apples? How came it to paſs that your trees produced this wonderfully ſcarce year?"’ To which Dr. Berkeley replied, ‘"Alas! my good Lord, we had not a ſcore on all our trees. They are the grateful offering of a very grateful man, Mr. Andrews; and my wife thought that, as we owed the apples to your Grace's goodneſs to him, they ought, in conſcience, to be ſent to your Grace:"’ who, with his ac⯑cuſtomed pleaſantry, turning to Mrs. Berkeley, who had the honour to be a great favourite with his Grace, ſaid, ‘"Why, my good young lady, I don't know that I ought to accept th [...]ſe apples. I am afraid they are a little ſimo⯑niacal."’ To which Mrs. Berkeley replied, ‘"Oh! no, my Lord: if they had come before your Grace had preferred Mr. Andrews, it might have been a caſe for Biſhop Taylor's Ductor Dubitantium; but, I think, as it is, your Grace may eat them with a very ſafe conſcience."’ His Grace laughed heartily, and ſaid, ‘"I remember Arch biſhop Potter uſed to tell of a man whom he had given a ſmall living, on which grew a remarkably fine pear⯑tree. He uſed every year to ſend the pears to Lambeth. His Grace gave him a ſecond, much better, living; and he uſed to ſay, 'Whether the pear-tree died, or the pears were blighted every year, I know not; but I know that I never ſaw another pear after I gave the ſecond living."’ This GRATEFUL man did not, probably, like the PUBLICATOR, [ccxliv] expect one of the three ſtalls at Canterbury. He was at leaſt modeſt, if ungrateful.

It is not poſſible to avoid contraſting two men, both of whom were indebted for their firſt comfortable eſtabliſh⯑ment in life to the exquiſite amiability of Dr. Berkeley the Reverend Dr. Glaſſe and the PUBLICATOR. When Mr. Monck Berkeley was about ſix or ſeven years old, Dr. Glaſſe ſaid, more than once, ‘"If you and Mrs. Berkeley would confide your little man to me, how happy ſhould I be! what care and attention I would pay him! and I am ſure, if you would condeſcend to accept it, I deſire neither fee nor reward."’ The laſt grateful offer was of courſe thankfully declined; and from Mr. Berkeley's birth his Father determined, that, if God ſpared his life, he ſhould be educated at a Public School; often lamenting that the good Biſhop had not ſent him to one, particularly after his ſon grew up, often ſaying, ‘"he had then got a ſecond guardian."’ Biſhop Berkeley, at one time, for ſe⯑veral years paid four hundred pounds per annum to different maſters to inſtruct his children in Muſic, Painting, Fencing, Riding, and French; the Latin and Greek he entruſted to none but himſelf. His ſons were never ſuffered either to ride or walk out unattended by a careful ſervant.

When Dr. Berkeley came to Oxford, at the age of nine⯑teen, attended by a moſt reſpectable worthy Chaplain of [ccxlv] his Father's, and his own ſervant, he had never rode a mile alone; and he had contracted an habit of meditating and compoſing on horſeback, which occaſioned his being the moſt careleſs of riders, leaving the horſe's bridle ſo very looſe, that he was perpetually thrown. Soon after his marriage, Mrs. Berkeley, finding this to be the caſe, made it a point that he never ſhould ride without a ſervant. When Mr. Berkeley grew up, he joined in what Dr. Berke⯑ley called his Mother's perſecution, and one day ſaid, ‘"What is the reaſon, I would fain know, why your Mother lets you ride fifty miles without a ſervant, and over hedge and ditch, nobody knows where, hunting, and won't let me ride to Taplow or Maidenhead alone?"’ To which Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"Ah! my dear Sir, if you had been buffeted for ſeven years though Eton School, I dare ſay, my Mother would have let you ride alone as ^* quietly as ſhe [ccxlvi] does me; but that is out of the queſtion, for ride alone you muſt not; that is agreed on all hands."’ To which Dr. Berkeley replied, ‘"I am ſure, you are obliged to me, Sir. I wiſh I had been buffeted any where in my youth, as you have been, you rogue."’

But to return from this digreſſion to the contraſt of, as Mrs. George Berkeley ever termed him, the really grateful Dr. Glaſſe. We have ſeen his kind offer, in the preceding page; we will now proceed to the PUBLICATOR's polite re⯑fuſal. When Archbiſhop Cornwallis viſited at Canterbury, he was of courſe at the Deanery. It was impoſſible that the attendant Biſhop ſhould be alſo lodged there. On a conſultation concerning the place where he ſhould be re⯑ceived and entertained, not one of the Prebendaries ſeemed deſirous of that honour. The generous hoſpitable Dr. Lynch was not then a member of the choir; and it muſt in juſtice be ſaid, that numbers of the Prebendaries, who are not in office, let their prebendal houſes, and are only viſitors or boarders to their tenants; ſo they have it not in their power to receive any one. It was ſuggeſted that the Pre⯑late muſt be contented to go to one of the miſerably bad, exceſſively dear, inns in the city. This ſhocked Dr. Berkeley, although only the ſon of a poor UNKNOWN Iriſh Prelate; and he inſtantly ſaid, ‘"Bad as my houſe is, it is better than a naſty dirty inn; he ſhall be my gueſt."’ As ſoon as it was known who the attending Biſhop was, Dr. [ccxlvii] Berkeley wrote a polite letter, requeſting the honour of having his Lordſhip for his gueſt. Mrs. Berkeley requeſted her amiable conſort to permit her to invite his lady, with whom ſhe had the honour to be acquainted, and whoſe lovely eldeſt ſiſter, ſweet, beautiful Miſs Maddox, was a beloved friend of her childhood. Biſhop Maddox, when a Welſh biſhop, had for ſeveral ſummers a houſe at Eaſt Burnham, in the neighbourhood of White Waltham. That lovely creature died early. The Editor cheriſhes, with tender care, a keepſake, a ſmall ſilver medal, given by the good Biſhop to his ſweet daughter, to preſent to her little friend.

Some days before the arrival of the Archbiſhop, &c. Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"the children (then both living at home and going to Dr. Beauvoir's ſchool) will be horridly in the ſervants' way, for we muſt keep open houſe for a fortnight. What can we do with them?"’ Mrs. Berke⯑ley ſaid, ‘"She would contrive it as well as ſhe could: they ſhould get a cold dinner at one, and be off to play di⯑rectly."’ Mrs. Frinſham, then at Dr. Berkeley's, ſaid, ‘"You know I am going to Ramſgate, and I will take one."’ It was Dr. Berkeley replied, ‘"You are very kind; you ſhall take Robert: and it has juſt occurred to me that I will ſend Berkeley to *****; HE will be glad of an opportunity of obliging ME."’ Dr. Berkeley was, alas! ever too apt to judge of others by his amiable ſelf. De⯑lighted [ccxlviii] with this idea, he wrote to the PUBLICATOR, ſtating his ſituation, and ſaying, ‘"On ſuch a day John will deliver into your care my eldeſt boy for a fortnight; at the expiration of which I ſhall fetch him home."’ By the return of the poſt, Dr. Berkeley received a letter from the PUBLICATOR, ſaying, ‘"that he was very ſorry that it ſo happened that he could not poſſibly receive his little ^* bouy; but that he had juſt ſettled all matters to take his pupils to the ſea, to ſhew them the ſhipping, and give them a week's pleaſure;—it was unlucky, but it could not be helped."’ Dr. Berkeley flew with this letter to Mrs. Berkeley, ſaying, ‘"Well, this is the luckieſt thing in the world;"’ then redde the epiſtle; obſerving, ‘"it will make Berkeley" (juſt then turned of eleven years old, and, as an excellent judge uſed to ſay, "the beſt-bred properly behaved child of that age in England; no af⯑fected manly airs, but a ſweetly polite lad") "as happy as a prince, poor fellow."’ Dr. Berkeley notified this by letter immediately to the PUBLICATOR, who inſtantly [ccxlix] returned the following elegant, grateful, anſwer. The let⯑ter is carefully preſerved. ‘"My dear Friend, (his conſtant familiar addreſs to Dr. Berkeley,) I cannot help thinking you very unreaſonable, in wanting to faſten your Son upon me, eſpecially at a time when I have told you, that I cannot take him."’ The letter goes on in the ſame ele⯑gant ſtyle. Poor Dr. Berkeley was, for the time, very, very angry indeed; and Mrs. Berkeley maliciouſly laughed at the gratitude of his dear Friend. After ſome time, Dr. Berkeley wrote a letter to the Publicator; and, as was frequently his cuſtom, when going out to dinner, paſſing from his ſtudy, threw half a dozen letters on the table in Mrs. Berkeley's dreſſing-room, ſaying, ‘"I am in haſte; I ſhall be diſtanced; pray ſeal theſe unſealed ones; and ſend them all; with, yours, to poſt."’ The letter to the grate⯑ful Friend was ſafely ſealed; and Mrs. Berkeley, having very little of our grandmother Eve's curioſity in her com⯑poſition, did not aſk permiſſion to read it; but, hollowing it up, ſhe, with a good pen, wrote, as plainly as ſhe could contrive to do, the little word gratitude. Off went the letter to the poſt. In a few days Dr. Berkeley, coming into the drawing-room to tea, ſaid, ‘"I have got a letter from *****, in which he ſeems much diſquieted. He aſks what could poſſibly induce ſome member of my family to write on the edge of the inſide of the letter I laſt wrote to him the word gratitude. My dear, do you know any thing about it?"’ Mrs. Berkeley, from her cradle, to (ſhe [ccl] truſts) her coffin, too proud to tell a lie, inſtantly replied, ‘"To be ſure I do; for I wrote it."’—Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"Why would you write?"’—‘"Becauſe I think it a mighty pretty word."’—‘"Your wrath againſt *****, like moſt violent blazes, has abated."’

The Editor cannot diſmiſs the PUBLICATOR without re⯑marking, that, had it pleaſed the Divine Goodneſs to have ſpared Dr. Berkeley to have ſeen the contempt endeavoured to be thrown on his very deeply-learned, juſtly, univerſally admired Father, his indignation would not have ſubſided, as it for ſome time did, on account of his little Son. Dr. Berkeley never did, never would, forgive a greater man than even the Publicator, for ſpeaking, as he thought, im⯑properly againſt his excellent Father; for which great man and his incomparable writings he had through life the greateſt reſpect, ‘"RAMBLER John,"’ as Dr. Berkeley, who generally redde a Rambler once a week, termed that great man. His Son always called him the noble learned Bear. The accident happening at Oxford was too well known then, too well remembered by many gentlemen then preſent, ſtill living, to be here detailed. Suffice it therefore to ſay, that Johnſon's want of le ſavoir vivre occaſioned his ridi⯑culing Biſhop Berkeley's American ſcheme, by which he meant to introduce Epiſcopacy there, always declaring, ‘"if it was not done in a few years, the Colonies would revolt from the Mother Country."’ The event has ſhown that this [ccli] unknown Prelate was not a falſe Prophet. What the Father could not accompliſh, the Son contrived to bring about, by his intereſt with the Scotch Biſhops; the very excellent, very deeply learned Biſhop Skinner; the very pious Biſhop Falconer, who died ſoon after; and the amiable worthy Sir John Strachan, Baronet; as now that he is no more may be publicly known. In a letter to a Friend, written ſome time after, Dr. Berkeley ſays, ‘"I was well aware that it would never be forgiven, but I rejoice that I have done it."’

Dr. Berkeley ſelt his amiable heart gratified in rendering every poſſible ſervice in his power to the repeal of Lord Hardwicke's horrid act after the Rebellion in 1745. Had Dr. Berkeley's advice been adhered to, the firſt attempt had ſucceeded, when the three Scotch Prelates came over the firſt time to ſolicit it; but in moſt tranſactions there is generally a Marplot. Dr. Berkeley was particularly happy in entertaining at his houſe in Berkſhire, and endeavouring to return the very polite hoſpitality of Sir John Strachan to himſelf and family at Dundee, and of Biſhop Skinner to his Son when at Aberdeen, where Mr. Monck Berkeley had the freedom of the city preſented to him, as he had of ſe⯑veral other cities and towns in Scotland, and a licence pre⯑ſented to ſhoot on very manor wherever he went. He ſpent near a fortnight at Taymouth moſt agreeably. The Editor fears to truſt her once retentive, now, alas! trea⯑cherous [cclii] memory, to ſay, of ſixteen gentlemen who ſat down to dinner, every day, how many were John Campbell. This came out accidentally. Some one, not knowing Mr. Berke⯑ley's partiality for Scotland, ſaid, ‘"How ridiculous they are, calling themſelves by the names of their eſtates!"’ Mr. Berkeley reddened, and ſaid, ‘"Pray, Sir, why ſo? how would you have them diſtinguiſh themſelves?"’—‘"Why, by their Chriſtian names, as we do."’—‘"That will not do, Sir. The mode of diſtinguiſhing ſeveral brothers in a public ſchool, major, minor, &c. will not do; nor will firſt, ſecond, third, do."’ He then men⯑tioned as above related. The worthy learned Laird of Aha⯑ladar (certainly not ſpelt right by the Editor, although ſo pronounced) and his accompliſhed, amiable, eldeſt ſon, both much beloved by Mr. Berkeley were two of near half a ſcore John Campbells. Mr. Berkeley retained a moſt grateful ſenſe of the kind, elegant hoſpitality at Ahaladar. Talking frequently, after his return from College, of Jack Ahaladar, his brother aſked, ‘"Who is Jack Ahaladar, of whom you talk ſo much?"’ ‘"Why, the young Laird, a charming young man—YOU would like him."’—Probably now the elegant Laird of Ahaladar, as the Editor thinks ſhe was told the worthy old Laird is dead. He preſented Mr. Berkeley with a very curious original letter, which, when the Editor can afford to print the ſecond volume of Literary Relics, will be publiſhed in it.

[ccliii] To return from this digreſſion. Dr. Johnſon had no ſooner finiſhed his rude ſentence, than Dr. (then Mr.) Berke⯑ley, then a little turned of twenty, roſe from his ſeat, reached his cap, made his bow, and, to the no ſmall diſtreſs of the gentleman who had invited him to meet Dr. Johnſon, quitted the room in great indignation before ſupper. On ſome of the company, intimates of Dr. John⯑ſon, reproaching him for his [...] conduct, HE made a ſort of amende honorable, by ſaying, ‘"Why, I think the Biſhop's ſcheme no bad one; but I abuſed it, to take down the young gentleman, leſt he ſhould be too vain of having had SUCH A FATHER."’ Some one preſumed to ſay Mr. Berkeley was exquiſitely well-bred, not at all inſolent; to which he replied, ‘"No, not at all, but I thought it might do him good to mortify him a little."’ Dr. Johnſon wiſhed to have written the Biſhop's life; but Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"he would not furniſh him with any documents;"’ which Mr. Monck Berkeley uſed exceedingly to regret, ſaying to his Father, ‘"My dear Sir, it will never be ſo written as Johnſon would have written it;"’ to which Dr. Berkeley uſed to reply, ‘"It may be ſo; but I was reſolved HE ſhould not write it. You may, if you pleaſe."’ Dr. Johnſon, through a com⯑mon friend, made many attempts to viſit Dr. Berkeley in Berkſhire, and once ſaid, ‘"I have a good mind to go down to Cookham, and ſee what they would ſay to me."’ Mrs. Berkeley hoped that her beloved partner would have ſaid, ‘"We ſhould be very happy to ſee him;"’ but his reply was [ccliv] ‘"No; the man that could ſpeak ſlightingly of my great Father ſhall never be entertained under his Son's roof."’ It is therefore probable, that this reſpectful mention of Biſhop Berkeley by the PUBLICATOR would have completed the buſineſs begun by the ſmothering of the Conſecration Sermon for four years.

Dr. Berkeley preſerved all the letters he received, except now and then one, which he flung into the fire before he appeared to have redde it through; and, like his Father and Dean Swift, ſome he never opened at all, but threw them into a drawer. After his lamented death, the Editor found a baker's dozen (fourteen) from a fleecing Ingrate, with the ſeal unbroken, as ſhe told the man when obliged to hold a ſhort converſation with him. It has been often ſaid of the Editor's grandfather, the celebrated Francis Cherry, Eſquire, that he met with more Ingrates than any other man ever did. I ſuppoſe of moſt perſons of very large fortunes and very liberal minds, it may, with equal truth, be aſ⯑ſerted. Dr. Berkeley's fortune was by no means large, but his ſoul was noble. He, by his wiſe advice and direction, made the fortunes of great numbers. Mrs. Berkeley uſed often to ſay to him, ‘"My dear friend, you can make the fortune of every one you take in hand, but your⯑ſelf and your Son, and you will not ſtir a ſtroke for him."’ His reply conſtantly was, ‘"I cannot help it. I cannot aſk or puſh for myſelf or for him. If others do [cclv] not, it muſt remain undone by me."’ Both are now hap⯑pily provided for by ‘"that Friend who ſticketh cloſer than a brother;"’ both are receiving the reward of their labour of love to real friends and baſe ingrates, whom may God, for Chriſt's ſake, forgive, prays the Editor.

Having been obliged, neceſſarily obliged, to deſcant ſo much on that odious temper of the mind, INGRATITUDE, ſhe turns, with double, treble pleaſure, to what her beloved, reſpected, friend Mrs. Duncombe has ever obligingly obſerved, is the prominent feature in her character; to whom that lady has repeatedly ſaid, ‘"No one can do any thing for you but give you a diſh of tea, (a very delightful ſolace^*, ſurely, in pleaſant company,) without your ſetting about to think what return you ſhall make them."’ The Editor ever [cclvi] did, ſtill does, labour, as Lord Burleigh, in his letter, ad⯑viſes his ſon ROBERT, on a very different principle, (to advance his OWN intereſt,) ‘"to find out ſomething that may be ac⯑ceptable to his great and noble friends."’ The Editor having been, ſtill being, joint poſſeſſor, with her excellent Siſter, of ſome curious things collected by their accom⯑pliſhed grandfather Francis Cherry, Eſquire, a great Anti⯑quary, and curious Collector, before Antiquarian Societies were formed, has generally been ſo fortunate as to ſelect ſome token of her gratitude to offer to her Son's friends of higheſt rank, more ſubſtantial than words, well remem⯑bering the ſaying of a witty old ſervant of her Mother's, who lived with her before the Editor's birth, and died, at near an hundred, laſt ſummer. This worthy woman's un⯑common wit introduced her as nurſe to all the lying-in ladies, and ſick gentlemen and ladies, in the neighbourhood, whoſe ſpirits ſhe, by her wit, kept up when the apotheca⯑ry's cordial failed to do it, This humane woman, when at her own home, always nurſed the pooreſt of her neigh⯑bours gratis. She was a pious woman, and is now re⯑ceiving the reward of her ‘"labours of love."’ She, when perſons ſaid much and did little, would, looking archly, ſing, from an old ſong,

[cclvii] So has ever thought the Editor, ſo may ſhe ever think whilſt ſhe poſſeſſes any thing elſe to offer. But there are thoſe who withhold even thoſe; witneſs the learned PUBLI⯑CATOR, and another infamous INGRATE, who owed to Dr. Berkeley wonderful obligations indeed, being in the receipt of near two thouſand pounds per annum at the time of his death; but he is ſpared for the preſent, his excellent amia⯑ble brother having accidentally ſtumbled once on Mr. Monck Berkeley at Bath, and having there, and ever after, until his death, paid him every polite, reſpectful attention; and it would wound the lovely tender heart of that gentle⯑man, to ſee his worthleſs brother's corrupt, baſe, putrid, heart diſſected. Some few years before his univerſally un⯑lamented death, he CONDESCENDED to viſit Dr. Berkeley, He was often, for weeks, within three miles of him without doing it^*. On this perſon's getting his firſt preferment, Dr. [cclviii] Berkeley generouſly lent him one hundred pounds, to get things a little decent in his houſe, and had ſome difficulty, a few years after, to get it repaid. Dr. Berkeley was gone out on horſeback. Mrs. Berkeley heard the bell of the front gate ring. Nobody appearing, ſhe rang, to enquire who it was; the ſervant above named ſaid, ‘"It was Dr. [...]."’—‘"How came it that he he did not come in?"’—‘"I told him, Madam, that my Maſter was out: he aſked for you; but I thought you did not wiſh to ſee him, ſo I told him that my Maſter and you were going out to dinner,—and I believed you were dreſſing."’ This honeſt man, when waiting at table, had ſo often heard the Ho⯑nourable Mr. [...], and other gentlemen of the neigh⯑bourhood, abuſe this INGRATE's ſhameful inattention to Dr. Berkeley, that he very naturally ſuppoſed his Miſtreſs, who ever reſented ten times more for her friends than for her⯑ſelf, was not very partial to him. He is no longer an in⯑habitant of this world. Dr. Berkeley's goodneſs probably haſtened his removal to [...], another world.

Two very different perſonages are now coming on the tapis; two grateful, or rather, one gently amiable, the other amiably grateful.

[cclix] Some days before Archbiſhop Cornwallis's arrival at Can⯑terbury, as before mentioned, one afternoon the ſervant announced the arrival of that lovelieſt of women, in mind as well as perſon, the late Mrs. Tucker. As ſoon as ſeated, ſhe began, in her ſweetly muſical voice, ſaying, ‘"that, having heard that Dr. Berkeley was to have the attendant Biſhop for his gueſt," ſhe came to beg that Maſter Berkeley might be her gueſt for the next fortnight, that ſhe had prepared a bed for him, and that the utmoſt care ſhould be taken of him."’ THAT no one in the county of Kent could doubt, where her fame, as well as in many other counties, was, as it juſtly merited, blazed abroad.

A young gentleman of large fortune at Canterbury School, the amiable Richard Tilden, Eſquire, who boarded at the ſecond maſter's, Mr. Tucker's, was nurſed by Mrs. Tucker through a dreadful fever. Mrs. Tucker, although then lying-in, cauſed his bed to be removed into her own chamber, that ſhe might ſee he got his medicines at the appointed hours. As ſoon as ſufficiently recovered, he was conveyed home, where he had not been many days, when he requeſted his Mother (he was an orphan) to order the coach to carry him back to Mrs. Tucker, ſaying, ‘"that he liked her nurſing better than home nurſing;"’ and the requeſt was complied with. This happened before the Editor was reſident at Canterbury, but has been frequently [cclx] related to her by her very ſenſible worthy friend, the late Lady Head, and by many other perſons.

Mr. Tilden was a more than father to the Editor's youngeſt Son, of whom he was ſo very fond, and to whom he was ſo very kind, that the little creature one day ſaid to his Mother, ‘"Mamma, I ſhall never want money; for Dick Tilden (it is the cuſtom at Canterbury School to call the eldeſt and all the Brothers by their Chriſtian name) "bids me, when⯑ever I want a ſhilling, come to him; and if any great boy, that I cannot manage, beats me, he always beats him ſoundly for his pains."’ Mr. Tilden, when the amiable protector of the beauteous little Robert, was eighteeny ears old; ſoon going to the univerſity, he ſtaid to mourn the death of his grateful little protegé. How amiable are ſome youths! what odious ſavages are others! But the exquiſite unaffected ſweetneſs of Mrs. Tucker, (the Editor allows unaf⯑fected ſweetneſs, gentleneſs, &c. &c.) not only infuſed ſweetneſs into her own children, but into moſt of her boarders, generally ſons of the firſt gentlemen in the county, often from other counties.

The inſtance of an amiably retentive grateful mind is now to be adduced from one of thoſe boarders. The Edi⯑tor received the account from ſuch authority as precludes a poſſibility of her having been deceived; beſides, as it is often ſaid, ‘"Facts are ſtubborn things."’

[cclxi] The preſent Lord Thurlow, immediately on his receiving the Great Seal, applied to a Kentiſh gentleman, ‘"Has my dear old miſtreſs, Mrs. Tucker, any ſon that I can pro⯑vide for?"’—‘"No, my Lord; her eldeſt ſon is but twenty."’—‘"Don't tell ME of twenty; the living of Graveſend ſhall be held for him till he is four and twen⯑ty."’ That very learned, worthy, careful, now private, inſtructor of youth, with his amiable partner, has been many years at Graveſend, bleſſing the noble gratitude of the generous GRATEFUL Lord Thurlow. Why is gratitude ſo very rare, ſo ſcarce a plant in human hearts? but that MAN is a FALLEN creature. Lions have it, dogs have it, in a high degree; even the feathered tribe have it; ſome of the wildeſt of them. The worthy woman above named, as having ſerved the Editor above twenty years, is, as well as her old fellow ſervant, Mr. Wrightſon, wonderfully tender and kind to the brute creation; the Editor's Cook ^* rather negligent of them, the houſekeeper amuſed herſelf with feed⯑ing a parcel of Guinea fowls, in general very wild birds. Theſe creatures, although never fed but once a day, uſed to run flocking around her every time ſhe went into the meadows [cclxii] where they wandered; and more than one Sunday it was with conſiderable difficulty that ſhe got into the church without near forty of her feathered friends eſcorting her. She had reared near thirty of them, difficult as the taſk is, the hens being very bad nurſes. They well knew the hour of feeding was paſt. It was gratitude; ſhame to human nature! which the famous Dr. Cheyne uſed to ſay, ‘"was without GOD'S GRACE, a compound of Brute and Devil;"’ but theſe poor quadrupeds and winged fowl have not God's grace, and yet they ſhame mankind.

The incomparable Mrs. Tucker is not held up here as a grateful perſon in contraſt to the PUBLICATOR; for ſhe owed no gratitude either to Dr. or to Mrs. Berkeley, unleſs it was for uniting with the whole church, city, and neighbourhood, in admiration of the angelic manner in which ſhe treated and attended to the bodies and ſouls of Mr. Tucker's houſe full of young gentlemen boarders, aided by her ſedate, wiſe, excellent, eldeſt daughter, her beautiful lovely ſecond daughter, then too young for any thing but to be univerſally admired and beloved, which ſhe continues to be in an eminent degree by all who have the pleaſure of knowing her; and what is above all, by her throughly polite accompliſhed huſband, Mr. Symonds, a gentleman of large fortune in Leiceſterſhire. Long may ſhe be ſpared to him and his children.

[cclxiii] The Editor regrets that ſhe has treſpaſſed ſo long on the patience of the Reader. Having delivered her ſentiments freely on Gratitude and Ingratitude, it would be unpar⯑donable in her to cloſe this long Preface, without acknow⯑ledging the great obligations ſhe feels that ſhe lies under to ſeveral amiable friends of her excellent Son, and of her unworthy ſelf, not for any the ſmalleſt aſſiſtance in ſcrawling theſe undigeſted immethodical pages. It would be injuſ⯑tice, it would be more, it would be cruelty, to let it be ſuſpected, that any literary friend, learned male or culti⯑vated female, had the ſmalleſt ſhare in this poor per⯑formance. The Editor is at preſent too far removed from the preſs; and, franking being, alas! almoſt annihilated, ſhe has not had it in her power even to conſult a friend capa⯑ble of directing or adviſing her, one only excepted, who was too tenderly affected at hearing half a dozen lines redde, however excellently qualified to direct, adviſe, or correct any hobbling ſentence.

The Editor's Son uſed often to regret that his Mother would not write Poetry, ſaying, ‘"he was very ſure ſhe could if ſhe would,"’ as did a poetical friend of her youth, whoſe name often appears in Dodſley's Collection of Poems. Had either lived to ſee how lamentably ſhe acquits herſelf in Proſe, it had ſaved her ſome perſecution. Both were more angry at her repeated declarations that ſhe did not love Poetry, very rarely redde it, excepting Dr. Young's [cclxiv] Night Thoughts and ſome parts of Milton, &c. The poetry of De la Cruſca muſt charm a ſavage.

In Mr. Monck Berkeley's benevolent vindication, in the Author's Preface to the Poems, he exhorts people to re⯑member that the Reviewers are but MEN. If thoſe Gen⯑tlemen condeſcend to review a few pages written by a fe⯑minine pen, the Editor wiſhes them to remember, that ſhe is a Woman, a ſuffering OLD Woman, with moſt of the accompliſhments at threeſcore that moſt females have at ‘"the age of man,"’ ten years later—that ſhe ſerved an ap⯑prenticeſhip to extreme anxiety and anguiſh for very near ſeven years—ſeeing daily the declining ſtate of health of the two neareſt and deareſt connections in life, obliged to affect eaſe, and often cheerfulneſs, whilſt her heart bled at every vein. Unfortunately for her, both Father and Son, through their lives, declared, that if the Editor's conſtant, even cheerfulneſs, never high, never low, failed, both would give themſelves up to abſolute deſpair. The ſtrong exertions neceſſary to act the part to their ſatisfaction have certainly brought on a premature old age; and the Editor, according to the witty, wiſe, pious, Biſhop Taylor, ‘"is quite ready-dreſſed for the grave,"’ whither ſhe ſeems haſting apace. The Biſhop, in his "Holy Dying," ſays, ‘"dim eyes, gray hairs, ſtiff joints,"’ &c. &c. are all ſo many ‘"dreſſings for the grave."’ He does not add dulled faculties; I am ſure he might, although [cclxv] perhaps, HE might not feel it; his own wit being too well tempered to have the keenneſs of its edge blunted by aught but death itſelf. That is the lot of but very few. Per⯑haps the great Mr. Burke may eſcape it, who yet, ten years ago, complained of his tongue and his fingers. They have, however, enabled him to hold his pen to beſtow heavy, although very juſt, chaſtiſement where it was meet and right to do it. Long may he wield it, a terror, one ſhould hope, to ‘"all who offend through MALICIOUS WICKEDNESS,"’ to whom the Pſalmiſt, ſpeaking by the Holy Spirit, beſeeches God the Father NOT to be merciful.

To attempt doing juſtice to the goodneſs of Friends (ſome now no longer inhabitants of earth), to Mr. Berke⯑ley's, or to his Parent's gratitude, would require a ream of paper, now, like moſt other things, become a very dear commodity. Through the courſe of this work, written by haſty ſnatches, ſometimes laid by for many months un⯑touched, ſo as to have occaſioned much diſagreeable tauto⯑logy, the copy was never tranſcribed; ſo that it was ſent rough to the preſs; and much gratitude is due to the Printer, for his patience in decyphering all the interlinea⯑tions in it, without the aid of the worthy Sir Francis Willes—the ſame perſon and the ſame action brought twice on the tapis when once would have done—but much fault has been found with the author of "Anecdotes of the two laſt and preſent Centuries," for not relating every thing at [cclxvi] the ſame time of many of the perſonages; perhaps they might not come to the author's knowledge until the firſt part was printed off, as many things have occurred to the now treacherous memory of the Editor after it was too late to inſert them in their proper place. She has therefore taken leave to inſert them in a leſs proper one; for which ſhe thinks ſhe ought rather to beg her own pardon for being ſuch a fool as to inſert the mat all, than the Reader's, for inſerting, perhaps at page 7, what, if method had been attended to, ought to have been placed at page 2.

The amiable, generous kindneſs of Mr. Monck Berkeley's relations at Eton, the Reverend John Hayes, now eldeſt ſon of James Hayes, Eſquire, of Holyport, and the laborious endeavours of his brother Charles, both ſeveral years older than Mr. Berkeley, of courſe being excellent ſcholars, much higher in the ſchool, to make his little kinſman as ſtudious as himſelf, have been noticed above, as alſo the partiality of his beloved reſpected tutor, the learned Dr. Norbury, and the kindneſs of Dr. Langford whilſt in the lower ſchool, who yet once offended him moſt highly.

Dr. Berkeley finding fault one holyday that he was not advanced in Greek as he ought to have been, he indig⯑nantly replied, ‘"Ah! I wonder I am not worſe; but I am ſure I ſhall be well improved by the next holydays."’

[cclxvii]Dr. Berkeley.—‘"How ſo, child?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Why, I will tell you the truth. At [...] ſuch a time, ſo many of us were to give in an exerciſe; and when Dr. L [...] had redde them all over, he ſaid, Berkeley, yours is a very much better exerciſe than Mr. [...]'s;" (naming a nobleman's ſon, who, with that elegant wiſdom which has ever marked Eton ſchool, and rendered the youths, even the little boys, the beſt bred polite beings one can ſee, whilſt ſome other great ſchools, as a very learned, accompliſhed man, always uſed to ſay, are a ſet of ſavages, a neſt of hornets, are always ſtyled Mr. [...] the ſons of private gentlemen without that very proper diſtinction.) "Mr. [...]'s exerciſe is not near ſo good as yours; but he ſhall gain the place, becauſe his is as good an one as he is capable of writing, and yours is not your beſt by any means. Good as it is, I know, and you know, you could have made it a great deal better; therefore he ſhall have the place. On this declaration, I was ſo exceedingly angry, that I reſolved not to learn a word of Greek for ſix months. The time is juſt now expired, and ſo I ſhall ſet to it again."’—Dr. Berkeley exclaimed, ‘"Good God, child, how could you be ſuch a fool?"’—‘"I cannot help it, Sir, I was angry, and I made a vow, and I reſolved to keep it, come what would."’ Mr. Berkeley was, as has been ſhewn before, ſteady as a rock.—Later in life he made a more important [cclxviii] vow. One night at Brooks's he and his learned beloved Eton St. Andrew's friend, the learned T. Hobhouſe, Eſquire, were drawn in to play deeper than Mr. Berkeley, at leaſt, ought to have done. The amiable, worthy Mr. Hobhouſe has a very good maternal eſtate. Mr. Berkeley, as is uſual, won a frightfully large ſum, ſoon loſt it again, and all the money in his purſe, and much more than he had at his chambers to pay it. Very providentially Mrs. Frinſham happened to be in town. Early the next morning he poſted off to Duke Street. Mrs. Frinſham, ſomewhat ſurprized at hearing from her ſervant that Mr. Berkeley was come before nine o'clock, went out to him; the caſe was related, and that generous friend inſtantly enabled him to diſcharge his firſt, his laſt, gaming debt; telling him, ‘"that ſhe never felt ſuch pleaſure ariſing from having money at command."’ She has, in her youth, often re⯑lieved ſo very largely, as to deny herſelf for months the elegant neceſſaries of young ladies, to accommodate a particular friend, or an old acquaintance. Mr. Berkeley going down ſoon after to his father's, on the evening of his arrival, aſked his Mother, ‘"If ſhe had heard what a fool her ſon had been;"’ to which ſhe replying, ‘"That ſhe did not recollect having ever heard him called a fool by any one, but his Father and Mother now and then;"’ he related the above-mentioned circumſtance, adding, ‘"My dear Mother, you may ſet your heart at reſt from any fear of your Son's ever becoming a gameſter; for, as ſoon [cclxix] as I got home to the Temple, I kneeled down, and be⯑ſought God to caſt out my prayer if EVER I again played for any ſum more than I could well afford to loſe, play⯑ing now and then with one's neighbours in the country on a winter evening."’ It has, I believe, been mentioned above, that Mr. Berkeley, whenever he did play, which was very ſeldom, and a very indifferent whiſt-player he was, almoſt conſtantly won.—All his winnings went to relieve the poor.

But to return: Dr. Berkeley told his ſon that Dr. L [...] acted highly right, and that he ſhould have eſteemed it rather a compliment than a puniſhment. To which he replied, ‘"No, NO, Sir, not if you had ever been at ſchool, and knew what it was to loſe a place. He ſaid aloud, 'That mine was by much the beſt exerciſe;' and he ought, therefore, in juſtice, to have given me the place."’ Mr. Berkeley was then a child: he thought differently of the matter a few years afterwards.

Mr. Berkeley certainly did not inherit his wonderful daring reſoluteneſs either from his amiable Father, or from his Mother; but, probably, as well as his fine figure, from his Mother's father, whom the Editor has frequently heard relate the following fact concerning himſelf: ‘"Mr. Frin⯑ſham loſt his beautiful mother at twenty-four, juſt when he was five years old."’ (His father lived a widower [cclxx] near fifty years). Some time before her death, the ſervant went into the room where they were at breakfaſt, ſaying, that ‘"Maſter would not eat his meſs for breakfaſt, but wanted coffee, like his Mamma."’—Up ſprang his Father, ſaying, ‘"I will give him coffee!"’ went and gave him a good whipping—ſtill the meſs was refuſed—a ſecond whipping, with no better ſucceſs—at length a third, when his mother called out, ‘"Mr. Frinſham, let him alone, if he won't eat it now, he will eat it when he is hungry, don't whip him any more."’—‘"I will whip him till to-morrow morning if he does not eat it before."’ The Editor has frequently heard her father ſay, ‘"that he had reſolved to endure ſe⯑ven or eight flagellations;"’ but the declaration, ‘"that they ſhould be continued until the next morning"’ determined him to eat it immediately, which he ac⯑cordingly did, always obſerving, how wiſe it was to break children of ſtubbornneſs in their infancy. It pro⯑bably eradicated it in Mr. Frinſham; for a ſweeter tem⯑pered child never lived, as the Editor has frequently heard a worthy woman declare, who went to keep his father's houſe, on the death of his Mother—ſhe lived to near ninety, and always made an annual viſit at Mr. and after his death at Mrs. Frinſham's—that ‘"he was the moſt amia⯑ble of children, and of youths."’ When Mr. Frinſham ſent his ſons to Oxford, this careful ſervant went to take care of another, and a third ſet of poor motherleſs children; by which means, and the little bounties of her adopted [cclxxi] children, ſhe obtained ſufficient to maintain her more than decently, genteely. She was ever a parlour gueſt in all the gentlemen's families whom ſhe had brought up. She had by her father, in very early youth, been married to a gentleman who deſerted her, and went to live abroad; ſhe was therefore a ſafe houſekeeper for young widowers. Her firſt ſervice was Mr. Frinſham's Father's. The Editor has frequently, ſince ſhe grew up, heard her ſay, ‘"that her mother, going to viſit her ſoon after ſhe went thither, addreſſed her thus: 'My dear child, this is a very heavy charge that you have taken upon yourſelf. If you do not take the utmoſt care, the ſame care of theſe beautiful little children (Mr. Frinſham's younger brother was a re⯑markably handſome man), never expect my bleſſing, but my curſe ſhall ſurely light upon you."’ Poor Mrs. Grove uſed to ſay, ‘"I felt horror at the thoughts of my mother's curſe."’

It was mentioned above, that a deſperate ague obliged Mrs. Berkeley to reſign the taſk of nurſing her ſon to ano⯑ther. The perſon who a few years before had nurſed Charles Hayes, Eſquire, now Fellow of King's College, was by his dear tenderly beloved mother, of whoſe amia⯑ble ſweetneſs to the rich, and godlike charity and com⯑paſſion to all the ſurrounding poor, the Editor often thinks, ſometimes talks, with extatic delight, when ſhe reflects, that ſhe is gone to Him who inſpired, and is [cclxxii] now rewarding thoſe lovely tempers. May her ſons, when they venture to marry, meet with ladies as amiable, as worthy, as their lovely mother; as ſenſible as their great grand-mother, not famed for ſweet temper, the Editor's great aunt, eldeſt daughter of William Cherry, Eſquire, as a reward for their kind care of their little kinſ⯑man at Eton.—The Editor ſays, ‘"venture;"’ marriage was always a lottery, never reſembling Mr. Pitt's—‘"not two blanks to a prize,"’—but where there are not two prizes to two hundred WORSE than BLANKS. How can ill educated girls make good wives? But men muſt thank their own folly.—This lady was as beautiful as ſhe was lovely, ex⯑ceedingly reſembling a very fine original picture of Anne Boleyn, in the collection of an hereditary friend of the Editor's, the late James Warren, Eſquire, great uncle of the brave worthy Sir John Borlaſe Warren^*. Mr. Warren [cclxxiii] meeting Mrs. Hayes ſometimes at the Editor's Mother's houſe, always termed her Couſin Anne.

Judge Hayes uſed frequently to ſay, ‘"that his ſon Charles and Dr. Berkeley's both owed their bold intrepid ſpirits to their nurſe, the moſt courageous of females, having once nearly killed a young man, who attempted to take ſome improper liberties with her, when ſhe could hardly be ſtyled a woman."’ Mr. Charles Hayes and Mr. Monck Berkeley were very generous to her when they grew up. Mr. Hayes always admired the wonderful genius of Mr. Berkeley, who ſometimes paſſed the ſhort holydays of Whitſuntide at Holyport, with his kind kinſmen. The Judge one day exclaimed, ‘"Well, I never ſaw ſuch a creature in my life as Berkeley. I am perſuaded, that if I were to ſay I am in diſtreſs how to get five hundred pounds conveyed to the Lord Mayor of York, Berkeley would inſtantly ſtart up, and ſay, 'Dear Sir, give me leave to go and carry it for you;' not feeling any impropriety at the idea of a boy, of juſt then thirteen, being ſo em⯑ployed; and, what is more, I am ſure, if he undertook it, he would execute it as well at thirteen as any man of three and twenty. He is a moſt wonderful being."’ In⯑deed his bright genius ſhone forth in a ſplendid manner to the laſt breath he drew.

[cclxxiv] Mr. Berkeley ever retained a grateful ſenſe of kind invi⯑tations from friends at Windſor—the late Lady Colerance; his Mother's near relation, the amiable excellent Mrs. Cheſſyre; the Lady of his Mother's old very intimate friend, the late agreeable Dr. Boſtock, Canon of Windſor; and his relation good Mrs. Hayes, and the very worthy Mr. Trevanian.

Any attempt to enumerate and deſcant on, as they me⯑rit, the innumerable, amiable, reſpectful attentions paid to Mr. Berkeley, even by ſtrangers, to every thing but his name and connections in the Land of kind Hoſpitality, would fill almoſt as many pages as the learned accompliſhed Mr. Malone has filled in defending his favourite, the im⯑mortal Shakſpeare. Had Mr. Monck Berkeley been living, it had doubtleſs rouſed the ire of that young Poet; but Mr. Malone needs no coadjutor in any buſineſs that worthy gentleman takes in hand.

The Antiquarian Society of Edinburgh did Mr. Berkeley the honour to elect him a member, when he was only nineteen years old, an honour perhaps never before con⯑firmed on one ſo very young, on his ſending them a moſt excellent account of a very curious quarry in the heart of the Highlands. Mr. Berkeley had the honour to have the freedom of Aberdeen, and ſome other cities, and of many [cclxxv] towns, preſented to him. He conſtantly delivered them to his Mother, requeſting her to take great care of them.

How would Mr. Berkeley's ſpirit have been rouſed, had he lived to hear the ^*gentle, pleaſing, mild, Lord Balcarras ACCUSED of hunting men to death with blood⯑hounds! His able pen would inſtantly have been employed in vindicating his noble, reſpected, beloved friend. The feeble one of the Editor ventures to aſſert, that a few years muſt have wrought a wonderful change in that very amiable gentle nobleman, if it is not as probable that he would horſewhip his lovely-hearted Counteſs, (as did the late horrid Colonel D [...] his lady, aided by his ſtill more horrid footman,) or of guillotining his beautiful ſiſter, the Counteſs of Hardwicke. Thoſe who have had the pleaſure of living four years in his Lordſhip's [cclxxvi] neighbourhood^* could as readily believe that the ſun ſhone at midnight to light theſe hunters.

To the introduction of his friend, Mr. Lennard, Mr. Berkeley was indebted for the happineſs of enjoying an in⯑timate friendſhip with the excellent Sir J. Clarke of Penny⯑Cuicke, and his charming Lady, daughter of Mr. Dacre of the North, to whom Mr. Lennard was related. He ad⯑mired their amiable virtues, and revered their goodneſs. And invitation, whenever he was in Edinburgh, and had no more agreeable engagement, to viſit that excellent pair, it was impoſſible ſhould ever be obliterated from the memory [cclxxvii] of Mr. Berkeiey, or his greateful Parents. The goodneſs of their very agreeable worthy countryman, Commiſſioner Wharton, and the excellent Lady Sophia, to Dr., Mrs., and Mr. Monck Berkeley, on their firſt arrival in Edin⯑burgh, to whom they were introduced by the worthy he⯑reditary friends of Mrs. Berkeley, Mrs. Edlins, daughters of the excellent Baron Edlin, whoſe pious Lady and daugh⯑ters, remarkably bountiful to the poor, are ſtill the ſubject of admiration and praiſe in Edinburgh, are ſtill dwelt on with unfeigned gratitude and delight. Happy the poor who reſide near the few ſtill ſurviving ladies of that worthy family.

When at St. Andrew's in Scotland, Mr. Monck Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"Well, it is a mercy that I am not quite ſo much in love with Lady Elizabeth Lindſey as my Mother is. If I was, I muſt run away with her; not, as we ſay, to Scotland, but to England; and that would be a fine ſtory."’ The lovely, polite, unaffected, ſweet, real, gen⯑tleneſs of that lovely Lady, are doubtleſs the ſource of much domeſtic felicity to her Lord. Her Ladyſhip is, the Edi⯑tor verily believes, or nothing ſhould cauſe her to write it, one of the very few genuine gentle ſpirits ſcattered here and there to be admired, and (alas! for poor unlucky ſimple men) to be counterfeited. Dr. Berkeley uſed always to ſay, there was nothing he diſliked ſo much as ‘"a mighty pretty ſort of young woman."’ Mrs. Berkeley uſed to reply, ‘"that [cclxxviii] ſhe hoped nobody would ever ſtyle her ſuch, when he was preſent."’ He uſed to ſay, ‘"that he deteſted inſipidity."’ Such as ſhe was, he had her ‘"for better for worſe"’ thirty-four years. One of thoſe horrid horſe leeches, ever draining her too too generous huſband, having ſince his death told her, at her lawyer's cham⯑bers, ‘"That Dr. Berkeley married her for her money."’ Wonderful aſſertion! as Mrs. Berkeley's fortune was only a few odd thouſands; and when he was urged to take a lady, much in love with him, who had more than a hun⯑dred thouſand pounds. The Editor feels herſelf obliged, after this WONDERFUL aſſertion from a low-lived Divine, who, educated by John Weſley, perhaps never ſaw any Univerſity until at Dr. Berkeley's expence, to ſay, that Dr. Berkeley has repeatedly declared to his ſon, in her preſence, ‘"Have not I told you, over and over, that had I been Duke of Norfolk, or Robinſon Cruſoe, your Mother is the woman in the whole world that I would have choſen for a wife;"’ adding what it is impoſſible for the Editor to write; ‘"* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and ſhe could and would make matters comfortable, pleaſant on that iſland;"’ adding, ‘"I have always told you, I believe your Mother has the beſt temper to live with for happineſs of any perſon in the world."’ Not many weeks before his lamented death he ſaid to ſeveral perſons, friends, and ſervants, ‘"She is the [cclxxix] beſt wife in the world."’ God knows that ſhe feels, ever did feel, how far ſhe fell ſhort, in moſt relations of life, of the reſolutions ſhe made very early in life, to labour, if ever ſhe did marry, to make the beſt wife in the world, and, if God bleſſed her with children, the beſt mother. Alas! ſhe repeats it, ſhe feels, that ſhe fell ſhort; and yet, ſuch is the frailty of our fallen nature, that, were the time to be gone over again, ſhe fears ſhe could not much mend her hand. As miſtreſs of a family, ſhe, from early youth, reſolved to treat her ſervants juſt as ſhe would wiſh them to treat her, were they inſtantly to exchange ſtations. Per⯑haps this has ſometimes gone rather too far. A beloved friend of her's, nicknamed by the Editor in her youth, the Centurioneſs, ‘"I ſay to my ſervant do this, and he doth it,"’ frequently told the Editor, ſhe was a moſt incompara⯑ble governeſs of her children, and of dogs and cats; but that her ſervants did, or did not obey her orders, juſt as it ſuited their own convenience; adding, ‘"I think they are mighty good kind of people to do any thing; you aſk them ſo quietly, Pray now will you do ſo?"’

The Editor, as above ſhewn, with her children did not deal in ſhewing authority; with ſervants as well as children, when ſhe ſet about any thing in good earneſt, calmly ſay⯑ing, ‘"I will have this or that done."’ She has ever, with both, found that her word was a law. Servants are much to be pitied; they have often jobs to finiſh as well as their [cclxxx] ſuperiors; it is grievous to a generous mind to drag them away when half an hour later may do juſt as well. The Editor, perhaps, is weak, ill-judging, in that, as in many other things. She had been married more than ſeven years, when her amiable Partner, a little warm, as the Honourable Mrs. [...] ſays ‘"ALL men are,"’ (they cer⯑tainly are LORDS of the creation, and how much is warmth of temper to be preferred to ſullenneſs!) came up into her dreſſing room, ſaying, ‘"Do go down ſtairs, and try, once in your life, if it is poſſible for you to find fault with a ſervant or not. Richard has done [...]" (or has not done [...]")’ the Editor does not recollect which. This worthy man was ſometimes a little ſlow in his motions; his maſter was very quick in his. His ſurname was Hyde. He was related, and as many gentlemen learned in the law ſuppoſed, heir to a vaſt unclaimed property in the funds, left by a General Hyde, who died in the reign of George the Firſt. If it were duly conſidered by maſters and miſtreſſes of families, that they and their domeſtics muſt one day, ere long, ſtand together, at the ſame RIGHTEOUS bar, they would ſurely prepare to anſwer, when aſked, if they had taken care to inſtruct them in their duty to their Maſter in Heaven, or ſpent the time that might have been ſo employed, in reproaching them for neglecting their duty to their Maſter on earth. Theſe governors of families will be aſked, ‘"Did you not allow them time to read [cclxxxi]ſome portion in the Book of God every day? If ſo, why did you not, at ſtated hours^*, compel them to aſſemble together, and hear it redde in your own preſence."’ Then, whether they will hear, or whether they will forbear, ‘"Thou, Maſter, or Miſtreſs, haſt delivered thine OWN ſoul,"’ as ſpeaks Holy Scripture.

Where there is no learning, little logic, little time, the faculties of the mind and body both debilitated by ill-health brought on by ſevere afflictions, as in the Editor's caſe. The word ſevere ought to be expunged, if another could be ſubſti⯑tuted: it muſt be heavy; for nothing can, ought, at leaſt, to be termed ſevere, that is inflicted in love by our heavenly Father, on, alas! a lamentably ungrateful child, whoſe heart is, however, perpetually quoting, from the inſpired Prophet, ‘"Wherefore ſhould a man complain, a living man for the puniſhment of his ſins?"’ By which the Editor, for very many years paſt, has conceived the Holy Spirit meant to imply, by a living man, any one on this ſide the grave. any one who is out of hell; for if, through Grace, MERCY is at the lateſt period ſought, it will infallibly be found, witneſs the Thief on the Croſs; and a modern Thief—alas! no; poor wretch, he was only a murderer; for he had not the heart to rob when he beheld the blood he had ſhed; con⯑verted, [cclxxxii] brought to Chriſt, not, alas! by one of thoſe who ruſh into the prieſtly office^*, that they may remain idle and igno⯑rant, or that ‘"they may eat a morſel of bread ^†."’ This was effected by that brave excellent officer, General Rooke, who kindly, amiably offered the very old friend of the Editor, the ſenſible, pious T. Hughes, Eſquire, when a few years ago high ſheriff for Gloceſterſhire, to riſe at four in the morning, in March, to accompany him on his dreary jour⯑ney of ſixteen miles to attend the execution. He felt the unpleaſant dreary journey Mr. Hughes muſt have, and amiably offered to accompany him. His ſweet nature was ſhocked, on their arrival at Gloſter, at ſeeing the poor wretch quite hardened, that he begged Mr. Hughes's permiſſion to talk to the poor creature a little; to which the pious, amiable Mr. Hughes, who related the happy tale to Dr. Berkeley, and repeatedly to the Editor, re⯑piled, [cclxxxiii] ‘"My permiſſion, dear Sir, aye, and my beſt prayers for your ſucceſs."’ The execution was de⯑layed; and the bleſſed General, to whom the Editor re⯑grets that ſhe has not the honour, the happineſs to be known, ſucceeded, ſo effectually ſucceeded, that a poor creature, who at ſeven in the morning ſaid, ‘"he had ne⯑ver heard of the Saviour of Sinners,"’ expired at noon be⯑lieving in him with all his heart, aſking, ‘"And will HE ſave ſuch a WRETCH as I have been?"’—‘"rejoicing with joy unſpeakable and full of glory"’—to the great com⯑fort of the Jury, as the High Sheriff told Dr. Berkeley; for he had conſtantly denied the murder, and, the man being not robbed, they were uneaſy at having found him guilty. The preceding and ſucceeding context might be here with propriety inſerted; they may be ſought, and the whole chapter redde with advantage by thoſe who have never murdered a man. The Editor, however, feels herſelf obliged to vindicate herſelf from the bare ſuſpicion of Antinomianiſm by quoting No. XLIV. of "The Deep Things of God." Though a child of God glories in this, that ‘"where ſin hath abounded, grace doth much more abound;"’ yet no child of God can ‘"ſin that grace may abound."’

On this one of the ſelected numbers being redde to Mr. Monck Berkeley by his Mother, he exclaimed, with an earneſtneſs hardly to be deſcribed, ‘"God forbid! Oh! [cclxxxiv] God forbid!!!"’ It was mentioned before, that the Edi⯑tor, conſtantly, on quitting her Son's chamber, wrote un⯑der every number his comments, ejaculations, &c. upon it. She moſt carefully ſelected what ſhe felt ſuited the then ſtate of the ſoul.

Mr. Berkeley did not want inſtruction in his duty to God or his neighbour. He did not want to be awakened, to be ſhewn how direfully he had broken the ‘"Holy Law of God,"’ nor to be made ſenſible of the penalty to be in⯑flicted for ſuch breach; but to be convinced that Chriſt had received him, which his deep humility prevented him from believing, although the hope of it was his ſole ſupport.

One night, when he ſuppoſed himſelf expiring at Dover, Mr. Berkeley deſired his friend, Mrs. Frinſham, might be called out of bed to him: he ſaid, ‘"I beſeech you to pray for me. You ſee me going, perhaps from miſery here to everlaſting miſery;"’ adding, ‘"I yet feel ſome hope, that God hears my Mother's prayers, and that Chriſt will not quite caſt me off."’

It ought to have been mentioned in its proper place, that Mr. Berkeley wrote to his Mother from Oxford, de⯑ſiring her to ſummon all her fortitude to her aid, and pre⯑pare her mind not to be ſhocked at ſeeing the ſhadow of [cclxxxv] what was once her Son. The original idea was, that of Mr. Berkeley's going to Glouceſter to be conſtantly under the eye of Dr. Cheſtern. He therefore wrote, requeſting his friends to meet him on the road; accordingly, the mi⯑nute the poſt arrived, they, accompanied by their incom⯑parable friend, Mrs. D. Monck, ſet out and reached the inn at Burford about five in the afternoon, and about ſeven Mr. Berkeley arrived, attended by his own ſervant, and a youth of about eighteen, the ſon of an old Iriſh friend of Dr. Berkeley's, then ſtaying with Dr. Berkeley, who had been diſpatched to meet Mr. Berkeley, who had done amiably, as he ever did, to warn his Mother not to be ſhocked, &c. It required ALL her fortitude to ſee her idol with difficulty get out of the chaiſe, and enter the room, ſupported, rather difficultly ſupported, by his ſervant, a man about his own ſtature.

Mrs. Berkeley had gone to town to viſit her Son, and dear, excellent Mr. Grimſton, whoſe goodneſs cauſed his remaining in town all the ſummer with Mr. Berkeley, un⯑til Auguſt, when they ſet off for Haſtings. Five months of almoſt unabated torture had wonderfully weakened Mr. Berkeley's ‘"earthly tabernacle."’ Dr. Berkeley's great weak⯑neſs apologized for his appearing diſpirited; and Mrs. Berkeley forced herſelf to appear not to feel ſupreme an⯑guiſh of mind at the ſight of her IDOL thus debilitated.

[cclxxxvi] Dr. Berkeley, riſing about ten o'clock, ſaid to his Son, ‘"My dear child, I am ſo weak, and ſo wearied, that I muſt wiſh you a good night; I am quite unable to ſit up any longer."’ Mr. Berkeley, begging his Father's benediction, wiſhed him a good night, as he did his excellent friend Mrs. Monck. On his Mother's going to ſhake hands with him and retire, he ſaid, ‘"Beſt of Mo⯑thers, you have not been ill, like my poor Father: you can ſit up, and I greatly want a little converſation with you."’ The above mentioned youth was of courſe making his bow, when Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"You need not retire, Sir; I rather wiſh you to ſtay;"’ when Mr. Berkeley thus commenced, ‘"I am probably now not far from the end of my courſe; and I wiſh to ſay ſome things to my dear Mother; to bleſs her for having forced me to be regular and conſtant in my attendance at public worſhip and at family prayer, long before I felt or ſaw the neceſſity of it myſelf, I am convinced, well convinced, that it is the only way to train up a child, and, as my Mother, has quoted a thouſand times to us, (taking in his little bro⯑ther,) ſo convinced am I of it, that, of which there is very little probability now, ſhould I live ever to have a family of children, or ſervants, I will force them to at⯑tend, I will drive them before me to the houſe of God, and to family prayers."’ The young man ſtared to hear the energy with which Mr. Berkeley uttered this ſentence; [cclxxxvii] he turned round, and, looking ſtedfaſtly at him, ſaid, ‘"Yes, Sir, ſo convinced am I of the wiſdom of it, that if I could get them no other way, I would kick them before me, (driving out his foot with amazing ſtrength;) it is the only way to make them wiſe unto ſalvation in their youth."’

It is has been before obſerved, that Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"I have ſome little conſolation in thinking, that if all I ever printed, and all I ever wrote, lay on the table, and a ſtandiſh by me, and I knew that I had but half an hour to live, I would not eraſe one word of it; for, from a boy, I always reſolved never to write ‘"A line which, dying, I would wiſh to blot.’’

‘"In all I have ever publiſhed or written, I have laboured to render vice odious and ridiculous, and to hold up vir⯑tue to reſpect and admiration^*. But, alas! what is that? [cclxxxviii] How have I fallen! God help me! and how often have I envived my dog as he lay ſleeping by my bedſide, and ſaid, 'Ah! thou dear happy brute, God will not call THEE into judgement, as he will thy wretched maſter."’

Mrs. Berkeley quoted many gracious promiſes from Holy Scripture, and the promiſe of promiſes, ‘"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wiſe caſt out;"’ but all this was in ſome degree in vain. It was reſerved for her excellent [cclxxxix] friend, Sir Richard Hill, by his incomparable book^* above named, to pour the balm of perfect peace—that peace of God which paſſeth ALL underſtanding—into the dear, humble, contrite, troubled ſpirit of her unſpeakably dear Son—that peace for which the generality pray at leaſt once a week, but which ſo very few labour to obtain; when obtained, they feel that ‘"the yoke of Chriſt is eaſy, and his burden light."’

[ccxc] It was near two o'clock in the morning, before Mr. Berkeley, apologizing to his Mother, told her that he would detain her no longer, fearing that the want of a good night's reſt might injure her health. Mr. Berkeley always knew that the loſs of ſleep is almoſt death to his Mother, whoſe Mother and Siſter could, and the dear ſurvivor can, paſs weeks in health, with ſcarce any ſleep at all. Mrs. Berke⯑ley in that, as in other things, reſembles her Father.—When young, her Mother uſed to tell the Editor, that ſhe thought ſhe could not be her child, becauſe ſhe uſed to wiſh to leave a ball-room at four o'clock—her Mother telling her often that ſhe uſed to ſtay till eight, then drive home ſeveral miles, exchange her ball-dreſs for her morning one, and not go to reſt till twelve next night, or rather morning; for her mother, Mrs. Cherry, never retired to her chamber till twelve, and conſtantly roſe, winter and ſummer, at ſix, until within two years of her death, at ſixty-eight, when ſhe roſe not until ſeven o'clock. It was little likely that Mrs. Berkeley ſhould enjoy much ſleep after ſo intereſting a converſation of four hours.

Mrs. Berkeley is ſaid, by all thoſe who have known her moſt intimately from her childhood, to be of the moſt hopeful temper they ever knew: ſhe preſerves with tendereſt care a hair ring given by her dear Son; an elegant figure of Hope leaning on her anchor, one hand pointing up to [ccxci] heaven, with this motto in hair, ‘"Heaven's beſt gift to man."’ It is very certain, that until ſhe ſaw her Son the day after his happy ſpirit had quitted his fine form ſhe did flatter herſelf, that the mercy of God would ſpare him to her; under the idea of having laboured from her youth to obey, oblige, delight her own excellent Mother, in order to make her feel leſs poignantly the loſs of an al⯑moſt adoring huſband, that God would vouchſafe to reward her in KIND, and ſpare her Son. But, alas! her Son was her idol; and idols muſt be given up. The Editor was ſuppoſed to be idolized by her Mother, of whom it uſed to be ſaid, ‘"Mrs. Frinſham loves her ſo much, that ſhe never lets her walk acroſs the room without looking at her (little inſignificant figure) with pleaſure in her eyes."’ That delight muſt have ariſen from thinking ſhe bore ſome reſemblance to her excellent Father. The Editor has the pleaſure to reflect that there was nothing ſhe would not have ſacrificed to pleaſe the beſt of Mothers, and that ſhe always prayed to God that he would be pleaſed to ſpare her life, if it were only for one week beyond her Mother's, that ſhe might be ſpared the affliction of ſeeing her go before her. The Editor felt that ſhe was the cauſe of much ſad anxiety to her Mother, not having had the ſmall pox, as her excellent ſiſter had when a child, at Mrs. Sheeles's ſchool, and its being la⯑mentably fatal in Mrs. Frinſham's family, her eldeſt ſiſter being one Saturday eſteemed the moſt beautiful creature in [ccxcii] London^*, and the next the moſt deplorable object, mor⯑tified all over, and much blacker than an Ethiop. In the latter part the Editor has no doubt but ſhe had reſembled her lovely Aunt, had ſhe not been inoculated by Mr. Sutton himſelf, who attended her at her own houſe at Acton, with great aſſiduity, Dr. Berkeley being then rector of that pariſh. They were ſenſible of the bleſſing of ſuch a Preacher. Multitudes came every Sunday to Acton church, to hear one who, according to St. Paul, did not, as, he obſerved to the Editor in his laſt illneſs, ‘"preach himſelf, BUT CHRIST JESUS THE LORD;"’ adding, ‘"HE knows I [ccxciii] preached him in SINCERITY, always dreading to be a popular preacher, a pleaſer of the people."’

The following obſervations are intended ſolely to benefit ſome few unfortunate families where the ſmall pox is worſe than the plague. Mrs. Berkeley having not long weaned her ſecond ſon, and duly prepared by Mr. Sutton, her friends all conceived that inoculation would be to her what, by the bleſſing of God, it is to thouſands, to mil⯑lions, not to herſelf; ſhe conceived, if ſhe eſcaped with life, that would be all; but the ſufferings, her not having had that frightful diſeaſe had occaſioned to her Mother, did conſtantly occaſion to an almoſt adoring Huſband, and the tendereſt of Siſters, determined her one way or other to deliver them from their inceſſant anxiety; accordingly ſhe, together with Mr. Monck Berkeley, then between four and five years old, were both inoculated on the ſame day, with the ſame matter. The latter had only three puſtules, and did not loſe half an hour's play through indiſpoſition. His Mother had but few in her face, thoſe on her noſe pitted to the bone, a vaſt number on her head, a fright⯑ful quantity in her throat, and ſeveral on her arms, fingers, and feet; all ſhewed their malignity by being confluent, and not turning until three and twenty days—a plain proof, but for Mr. Sutton's method of treating the ſmall pox, ſhe had ſhared the fate of her beautiful aunt Miſs Cherry. Mr. Sutton aſſerted to Dr. Berkeley and others, [ccxiv] Mrs. Berkeley's friends, that he had never before had ſuch a patient. He was much alarmed, and exceedingly atten⯑tive, ſaying, ‘"that had Mrs. Berkeley caught the ſmall pox in the natural way, ſhe would have mortified in a few days; that had Mr. Monck Berkeley caught it in the natural way, it had probably never have been known that he had had it."’ Mrs. Berkeley's mother, Mrs. Frinſham, had only ten puſtules, when a child about eight years old. A ſingular ſymptom attended Mrs. Berkeley's ſmall pox, that of her eyes being, for more than three days, ſet in their ſockets, ſo fixed that ſhe could not move them at all, could only ſee in an abſolutely ſtraight direction; yet ſhe had not one puſtule in her eyes, or on her eye-lids; it was quite internal.

Mrs. Berkeley had been at firſt at Sutton Houſe; but, having always a wonderful partiality for her own home, which ſhe conceives would be the caſe if her home was a neat clean barn, begged Mr. Sutton's permiſſion to return to her own houſe, with which he very obligingly complied, on condition of her going to him when he could not call on her, which ſhe punctually did, her horſes having no⯑thing elſe to do, but drag her then wretched frame to take the air, as directed, half a dozen times in the day, ſhe be⯑ing unable to walk. Mrs. Berkeley, in her viſits to Sutton Houſe, uſed to enquire of the ſenſible well-bred Reverend Mr. Houlton, chaplain to Mr. Sutton, when her eyes would [ccxcv] be better? his conſtant anſwer was, ‘"Oh! dear Madam, you will be in heaven to morrow, I aſſure you."’ The next day Mrs. Berkeley, on entering the drawing-room, enquired of her fellow patients where Mr. Houlton was, that ſhe might tell him, ‘"She did not like HIS, Mr. HOULTON's, heaven at all."’ The very witty Canon Bowles, of Saliſ⯑bury, being one of the patients, opened the door, and called out, ‘"Houlton, come down; her is Mrs. Berkeley, the lady of a Divine, that declares ſhe does not even wiſh to go to heaven;—come down, man, and talk to the poor lady."’

A lady, whoſe name is not at preſent remembered by the Editor, came down one morning, looking much diſ⯑treſſed, ſaying, ‘"I am very ill indeed."’ She ſent for the ſenſible, clever, conſoling houſekeeper, and exhibited her cheſt covered over with a moſt tremendous eryſipelas. The houſekeeper ſaid, ‘"Do not fear, Madam; if it pleaſe God, you will get ſafe through;"’ the lady, turning to Mrs. Berkeley, ſaid, ‘"If I do, I ſhall be the firſt of my family that ever did."’ It did pleaſe Providence to bring her ſafely through, and ſpare her to a moſt anxious huſband, who viſited her with trembling tenderneſs per⯑petually.

Mrs. Berkeley ſuffered much from the kind perſecutions of Dr. Berkeley and her Siſter, to ſuffer Sir William Duncan [ccxcvi] and Dr. Addington ^* to be ſent for; which Mrs. Berkeley reſolutely oppoſed, fearing it might injure the cauſe of in⯑oculation, the greateſt bleſſing ſurely that ever was granted to the terreſtrial part of man. Mrs. Berkeley reſolved to live or die, as it ſhould pleaſe the all-wiſe Diſpoſer of all events, by Mr. Sutton alone. Being at that time a little in the world, and a little known, ſhe conceived, that calling in regular medical aid would eaſily be turned into, ‘"Mrs. George Berkeley would certainly have died by Sutton's me⯑thod, if ſo and ſo had not ſaved her life."’ Mr. Sutton felt himſelf ſo obliged by her conduct, that he, at different times, inoculated poor people gratis, whom ſhe recom⯑mended to him, obligingly telling her, ‘"One line from her at any time, ſent by a poor perſon, ſhould be ſufficient introduction to his care and his kitchen."’

It is the faſhion with perſons of a certain deſcription to diſbelieve what they cannot comprehend, and to laugh at what they do not underſtand, and many perſons ex⯑plode [ccxcvii] the idea of the ſmall pox generally proving fatal in ſome families.

Several years after, one night, at a large rout at Canter⯑bury, there was univerſal lamentation over a family, who had loſt a darling child by inoculation in the common way. Mrs. Berkeley naturally ſaid, ‘"Alas! poor people! why did they not let Sutton attend it? He is the man, where it proves ſo fatal in families."’ A Canterbury phy⯑ſician, not remarkable for his worth, now no more, mean⯑ing to turn Mrs. Berkeley to ridicule, ſaid, ‘"And ſo, Ma⯑dam, you believe the doctrine of the ſmall pox proving more fatal in ſome families than in others;"’ and pro⯑ceeded to harangue, at a wonderful rate, againſt the abſur⯑dity of that doctrine, when, amongſt other ladies and gen⯑tlemen, approached the elegant Mrs. P [...] t, ſaying, ‘"Surely, Dr. [...], Mrs. Berkeley is right, at leaſt ſhe thinks exactly as Baron Dimſdale does; for, when he inoculated my daughter, he expreſſed his aſtoniſhment that a little creature ſo healthy, with ſo fine a com⯑plexion, ſhould have it ſo much more ſeverely than was the caſe with inoculation in his method with one in five hundred."’ Mrs. P [...] t told him, ‘"She could aſſign no reaſon for it, unleſs it could be admitted as one, that her father (the worthy Dr. D [...], Prebendary of Canterbury,) died of it, a deſperate ſort."’ To which, ſhe ſaid, the Baron replied, ‘"You have fully accounted [ccxcviii] for it, Madam. In the few patients I have had, who have ſuffered much with it, I have always found that ſome of their families, on one ſide, have, for generations, died of it."’ The Editor knows one family, where, for above two centuries, not one attacked by that tremendous diſeaſe ever did recover, until the introduction of inocu⯑lation; and in ſuch unhappy families their children ſhould be carefully kept out of the reach of infection, until old enough to take remedies to prevent being choaked, as it uſually attacks the throat, and infants cannot take reme⯑dies to ward off that frightful attack; as was the caſe with the Editor, her throat being quite lined with puſtules.

We have an high authority for knowing, ‘"He that wa⯑tereth, ſhall himſelf alſo be watered again."’ Mr. Berke⯑ley experienced it, at leaſt, in one very pleaſing inſtance, his introduction to his noble, highly-honoured, reſpected friends, their Graces the Duke and Ducheſs of Marl⯑borough^*, for which he was ſolely indebted to his very [ccxcix] old friend, the Reverend Dr. King, now Chancellor of Lincoln. Mr. Berkeley happened to be at his father's, when Dr. King was appointed to Dr. Tanner's vacant ſtall in the church of Canterbury. Immediately on hearing it, he, with his wonted ſweetneſs, when aſking a favour of either of his parents, ſaid to his Father, [ccc] ‘"My dear Sir, I ſhould take it as a very great favour if you would have the goodneſs to invite Dr. King to be your gueſt when he comes down hither to be in⯑ſtalled; as I believe, although a moſt excellent ſcholar, he is entirely ignorant of all matters of this kind, and you are au fait in them. He was exceedingly kind and good to me when I was at Eton, and when we uſed to go over together to Lord Inchiquin's," (that elegant no⯑bleman, one of the friends of Dr. Berkeley's very early youth at Cloyne, moſt amiably kind to Mr. Berkeley when at Eton,) "and to Sir Adam Gordon's," (a very old friend equally kind,) "and it would delight me to have it in my power to ſhew my gratitude to him."’

Dr. Berkeley deſired his Son to write immediately to Dr. King, and ſay, ‘"that, although he, Mr. Berkeley, muſt probably be abſent, Dr. Berkeley requeſted the favour of his company."’ Accordingly, at the proper time, Dr. King arrived at Dr. Berkeley's houſe in the Oaks, accompanied by his ſenſible brother, John King^*, Eſquire. Dr. King expreſſed his ſenſe of the little attentions it was in Mrs. Berkeley's power to ſhew him, more highly than they merited. She requeſted him, if it was in his power, to do her Son the honour to introduce him at Blenheim; Mrs. Berkeley, having ever, from a young woman, be⯑fore [ccci] ſhe married, declared, if ever ſhe had a ſon, ſhe would try to introduce him to that noble family, in preference to any other in England. His Grace's father, the late Duke, was very uncommonly amiable, and had much worth.

The Editor cannot avoid dropping a tear over the too early grave of a moſt amiable young gentleman, who accompa⯑nied Dr. King in his ſecond viſit to Dr. Berkeley's, his bro⯑ther-in-law, [...] Manby, Eſquire, ſecretary to the Duke of Leeds. Any attempt to do juſtice to the amiable, mild, gentle, elegant merits of this young gentleman, would require an inſpired pen, inſtead of one dulled, blunted, by age and affliction. Probably all who knew him would be ready, with the Editor, to take up the lan⯑guage of Shakſpeare, and ſay,

Good Dr. King, more learned than attentive, had brought Mr. Manby down with him to the Summer audit; and, knowing that Dr. Berkeley's houſe was not very large, had depoſited him at one of the wretched inns at Canterbury. After being at the Oaks two days, one morning at break⯑faſt, the good little Doctor ſaid, ‘"He muſt go before he went into the audit room, and ſee after his young man."’ Mrs. Berkeley, knowing that the Doctor had no ſon, en⯑quired, ‘"What young man?"’

[cccii]Dr. King.—‘"Why, why, he is Mrs. King's brother; I brought him down to ſee Canterbury."’

Mrs. Berkeley.—‘"Where is he?"’

Dr. K.—‘"Why, at one of your inns down in the city."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Who is with him?"’

Dr. K.—‘"Why nobody; that is the thing!"’

Mrs. B.—‘"How old is he? A man grown up, or a youth? Surely it is not ^*dear Dick, after whom I heard my Son enquire of you ſo kindly, and charge you ſo ſtrictly to give his affectionate regards?"’

Dr. K.—‘"No, no; he is older than Dick; it is his eldeſt brother."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Well, who ſhews him the lions of Canter⯑bury?"’

Dr. K.—‘"Why, poor fellow, nobody: that is the thing."’

Mrs. B.—‘"The THING indeed!!!"’

It will, by this time, be eaſily perceived by thoſe who have the pleaſure of knowing intimately the learned Doctor, [ccciii] that Mrs. Berkeley had taken upon herſelf the government of this little great man; Mrs. Berkeley always aſſerting, that although we are forbidden by the Apoſtle to govern our own huſbands, that prohibition does not extend to our neighbour; and Mrs. Berkeley is, by her friends, eſteemed a pretty good hand in that, often very neceſſary ^* buſineſs. But, to quit this folaterie, which the Editor brought into the world with her, and which, maugre all her afflictions, her preſent exceedingly indifferent health, ſeldom well a whole hour together in a week, ſhe ſeems to feel will never quit her, like the excellent Sir Thomas More's wit, and good old Lady Baniſter's humour, who, dying at an hundred and nobody knows how many more years old, told all her great grand-children, ‘"not to ſtand crying over her, for that they could not think that ſhe was dying an untimely death, in the prime of life."’

The dear lively Biſhop of Norwich, one day, at dinner at Dr. Berkeley's, ſaid, ‘"My dear Madam, how came you [ccciv] to let my brother King go to church this morning with⯑out a band?"’—‘"Oh! my dear Mr. Dean, if you did but know the trouble it coſts me every day, to prevent his keeping your Eminences (a title beſtowed by Mrs. Berkeley many years before on the Dean and Prebenda⯑ries) waiting dinner for him, you would pity me; all my eloquence cannot inſpire him with due veneration for the collected body—the CONCLAVE."’

Mrs. Berkeley, feeling the unpleaſantneſs of Mr. Manby's ſituation, beſought Dr. King to bring him to Dr. Berkeley's. Mrs. Berkeley, her Son being in London, ſent immediately to a very amiable worthy young man, who felt great grati⯑tude for ſome very eſſential ſervices rendered him by Mrs. Berkeley, repaying his attentions, when a boy, to her little boys, much younger, at the King's School, the worthy Mr. William Jackſon, ſon of the Collector of Exciſe, and afterwards an Alderman of Canterbury. This grateful, well-informed young man died, after a very few days illneſs, univerſally lamented, as he was univerſally beloved and re⯑ſpected. His wonderfully low-lived parents gave rings of his hair, ſet with diamonds, to many of the ladies of Can⯑terbury, who would not have known that he exiſted, as himſelf uſed to ſay, but for Mrs. Berkeley's gratitude; which when he, at nineteen, quitted the King's School, led her to invite him to play at cards at the round table with the younger ladies and gentlemen at her routs. Mrs. Berkeley [cccv] introduced him to her learned friend the Reverend John Duncombe and his Lady, and requeſted them, when ſhe left Canterbury, in 1777, to take to him. His mind re⯑ceived much cultivation from that learned, worthy, well-in⯑formed pair. To Mrs. Berkeley the old woman ſent into Berkſhire, Mrs. Berkeley being there at the time of his death, a piece of catgut worked with her ſon's hair, ſaying, ‘"that Mrs. Berkeley did not want diamonds."’ Poor young man, he often, when living, felt her low abſurdi⯑ties, when ſhe inſiſted on exhibiting to her ſon's company. He repeatedly ſaid to numbers of people, ‘"But for Mrs. Berkeley's goodneſs, and I had been in ſuch a ſet,"’ (naming ſeveral aldermen's ſons, &c.) ſome now vio⯑lent Democrats, who were kept in their own line of company, whilſt Jackſon was in the firſt company in the church and county. His father, at his death, left legacies to all his ſon's friends, excepting to Mrs. Duncombe and to Mrs. Berkeley, to neither of whom an hundred guineas for a ring would have been unacceptable. But the new Legacy Bill will never affect Mrs. Berkeley; for, as Mrs. Frinſham ſays, when any of her rich relations die childleſs, ‘"Siſter, to be ſure they forget that you and I exiſt, or that we know how to ſpend a little money, for none of them ever name us even for a ten guinea ring."’

But, quitting this ſubject for a much pleaſanter, Jackſon immediately preſented himſelf in Mrs. Berkeley's dreſſing⯑room, [cccvi] when ſhe introduced him to Mr. Manby, requeſting him to become his guide, to conduct him to every thing worthy notice in the church or city, to repair to the Oaks every morning at breakfaſt, and every day at three to take their dinner with Mrs. Berkeley, and ſpend the afternoon; the Prebendaries dining together at each other's houſes, during the audit, the tables generally being full; and taking their tea in the audit-room.

On the day when they dined at Dr. Berkeley's, on Mrs. Berkeley's entering the eating-room, the dinner ſerved, the Biſhop of Norwich, then Dean, going up to her, preſented her with a pamphlet, ſaying, ‘"Madam, entirely in obedience to your commands, there is the ſermon that I preached on Trinity Sunday. If it pro⯑duces any good, it is entirely owing to you, for it has been often preached, and never was intended for the preſs. but you inſiſted upon its being publiſhed; and I have obeyed your orders."’ Many of the Prebendaries ſaid, the public were very much indebted to Mrs. Berkeley. The Biſhop, when ſitting at dinner, ſaid, ‘"I muſt requeſt you, my dear Madam, to give me a liſt of your friends whom you wiſh ſhould read it, that I may ſend it to my bookſeller."’ Mrs. Berkeley felt, as it merited, this very polite attention from her moſt excellent old friend, and ſaid, ‘"She would requeſt a few to ſend to ſome of her friends in Scotland; that her Engliſh friends could pro⯑vide [cccvii] themſelves:"’ then ſaid, ‘"I muſt pull this incompara⯑ble diſcourſe all to pieces; and get ſome of my pocket M.P.'s;" (ſo Mrs. Berkeley always ſtyled two amiable Baronets, who uſed at all times to convey her ſimple chit⯑chat to her friends;)’ adding, ‘"I do wiſh to convey one en⯑tire to dear Lord Leven. What method can I take, my dear Mr. Dean? Can you adviſe me?"’ Sweet Mr. Man⯑by, with pleaſure in his eyes, replied, ‘"My dear Madam, I can render you that little ſervice, and ſhall be moſt un⯑feignedly happy to do it. You know we can ſend any thing from the Secretary of State's Office."’

When the audit was ended, and the good little Doctor^* and his brother going to quit Canterbury, this moſt amia⯑ble of young gentlemen thus addreſſed Mrs. Berkeley: ‘"My dear Madam, what can I do? what can I ſay to you, for your throughly polite attentions, for your won⯑derful goodneſs to me? I am utterly unable to expreſs [cccviii] in any degree, the ſenſe I muſt ever retain of it. If at any time, in any way, I can render you any ſervice, you will delight my ſpirit by only pointing it out to me."’ Mrs. Berkeley conjured him not to diſtreſs her, by ſaying a ſyllable more to her, for having only done juſt what every other perſon, not a ſavage, had they known his ſituation, would have done.

The Editor cannot here forbear relating a little anecdote of her Son's lovely amiability, of which ſhe was only very lately informed, he never having mentioned it. A lady, who was a ſtranger, viſiting at Mrs. Berkeley's, happened to ſit oppoſite the fine portrait of Mr. Berkeley, painted by his amiable accompliſhed friend, Mr. Peters; ſhe, in a low voice, ſaid to the lady who ſat next to her, ‘"I never ſaw ſo like a picture in my life."’ Mrs. Berkeley, although ſhe cannot ſee, yet hears remarkably quick, (thanks to God's bleſſing on the ſkill of Mr. Maull in Piccadilly, ex⯑erted about twenty years ago,) ſaid, ‘"I did not know, Ma⯑dam, that my Son had the honour to be known to you."’ To which the good old lady very politely replied, ‘"Ma⯑dam, I had the honour to be known to Mr. Berkeley. One year returning from Margate, we wiſhed to ſee the cathe⯑dral of Canterbury; we walked up, and could not ſee any one to tell us where to find the perſon who ſhowed it. We ſaw a great many gentlemen walking backwards and forwards by the ſide of the church. After ſome time one [cccix] of them, detaching himſelf from the reſt, came up to us, and, in the politeſt manner, ſaid, 'Ladies, are you in any diſtreſs, in which I can aſſiſt you? The ladies told their wiſh to ſee the cathedral, and their utter inability to find out how to do it. Mr. Berkeley ſaid, 'If you will have the goodneſs to wait two minutes, I will get the verger to attend you.' He ſtepped into a ſhop, ſent off a lad for the verger, and again joined the ladies. On the ar⯑rival of the verger, Mr. Berkeley eſcorted them into the church, pointed out to them ſome particular beauties of that glorious temple of God, charged the verger not to omit ſhewing them ſome things as he named; then, ſaying 'he had an engagement,' made an elegant bow, wiſhed them a pleaſant journey, and took his leave."’ The ladies enquired of the verger who that young gentleman was to whoſe politeneſs they were ſo much indebted. He replied, ‘"that it was Mr. Berkeley, ſon to one of the Pre⯑bends."’ The ladies expreſſing gratitude, the verger ſaid, ‘"Yes, Madam, every body loves Mr. Berkeley exceedingly, he is ſo kind and condeſcending to every one."’

Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley both had been for ſome time wiſhing to obtain for their worthy old ſervant, Mr. Wright⯑ſon, when he ſhould marry and quit ſervice, the place of one of his Majeſty's meſſengers, he having repeatedly flown, with incredible velocity, over this kingdom, and to and from Ireland, on Dr. Berkeley's buſineſs; and probably, [cccx] had it not pleaſed the ALL-WISE Director of ALL things, ſmall as well as great, to remove to the ſociety he ſo ſtrongly reſembled on earth the angelic Mr. Manby, the poor of Canterbury had not been bleſſed with quite ſo excellent, ſo judicious, and ſo kind a governor, as ſucceſſor to their former very worthy maſter, Mr. Nott. It is ſurely a de⯑light to every feeling heart, to ſee the aged poor made happy, the young inſtructed and brought up induſtriouſly, the way to be happy here and hereafter.

The Editor is much addicted, wherever ſhe reſides or ſtays, any little time at a place, to viſit the work-houſes, feeling tender pity for thoſe who have not a penny to buy tobacco, ſnuff, or a little two ſhilling tea, and ſweetened ſand, called ſugar, to ſeaſon it. Her feelings ſuffered much whilſt at Oxford; as ſhe really conceives, from what ſhe herſelf ſaw. The relation of two of her old ſervants, whom ſhe frequently ſent thither, that moſt well-regulated Bride⯑wells are Paradiſes compared to the Oxford Work-houſe; in ſhort, nothing out of the infernal regions can be worſe, or worſe conducted. Mrs. Berkeley's maid, ſent thither one day to ſee after a poor ſick woman, was obliged to take ſhelter in a room ſome poor creature opened to her; an audacious harlot flying through the houſe with a great knife to murder the then poor, ſtupid, ignorant miſtreſs. They have no poundage from earnings: once in the year, at the Races, they have, ſome two-pence, ſome ſix-pence, [cccxi] given them, as one of the guardians told Mrs. [...], to figure away with on the Courſe.

Mrs. Berkeley, one day, on going out, gave a poor woman, who had called the miſtreſs to her, and ſhewn her the uncultivated wretched garden, a ſhilling. The poor wo⯑man's gratitude and extacies were ſorely diſtreſſing, adding, ‘"I have not ſeen a ſhilling before for two years."’ This poor creature had lived comfortably in London, her huſ⯑band a maſon, killed by the breaking of a ſcaffold, when alas! ſhe was wretched enough to belong to ſome pariſh in Oxford. Mrs. Berkeley enquired whom among the guar⯑dians were tenderly diſpoſed towards the poor, and was told, Mr. Slatter the baker, and Mr. Ayton the grocer. Mr. Slatter ſerving Dr. Berkeley's family with bread, ſhe inſtantly ſet off to call on him, and never recollects to have ſeen a more ſenſible, well-behaved, humane perſon in humble ſtation; he would make a better figure in an higher, than many who have ſcrambled up to it. He aſſured her, that, unable to combat with the majority of the guardians in defence of the poor, he had in deſpair relinquiſhed it entirely.

She then went to Mr. Ayton, and received a ſimilar an⯑ſwer. She exhorted both, but, ſhe fears, in vain. How⯑ever unpleaſant it might be to continue to fight the battles of the poor, ſhe aſſured them there would come a time [cccxii] when they would rejoice that they had done it. Their an⯑ſwer was, that the loweſt and moſt mercenary of the tradeſ⯑men were appointed guardians, and there was no oppoſing them. How different from Canterbury! two moſt re⯑ſpectable tradeſmen out of each of the ſixteen pariſhes are annually choſen; ſometimes, ſhe conceives, rechoſen; as, when ſhe wiſhed to get a poor creature going in com⯑fortably depoſited, ſhe conſtantly went to Dr. Berkeley's baker, the very worthy, ſenſible well-bred Mr. Johnſon, educated at the univerſity of Cambridge. On the death of his father he moſt dutifully and affectionately went home, to aſſiſt his worthy mother in carrying on her buſineſs. Mr. Johnſon, if not in office himſelf, conſtantly took care to apply to ſome worthy man who was. The Editor is no Democrat; feels horrors at the vile idea of Equality—but ſuch direful inequality as a rich bon-vivant Oxford tradeſman—and the poor, almoſt poiſoned poor creatures in that vile workhouſe, muſt hurt every heart who has ever redde in the Bible, ‘"Who maketh thee to differ from an⯑other?"’ &c.

The Editor, after delivering her ſentiments very freely on one claſs of people in Oxford, cannot quit the place without taking notice of a very different claſs, whom ſhe once had it in contemplation to addreſs in the Oxford Mercury, as ſhe did not feel happy to quit Oxford without offering her very grateful acknowledgements to them—the [cccxiii] young gentlemen of the Univerſity. It is a general, an al⯑moſt univerſal complaint amongſt the Fair Sex. The Edi⯑tor begs pardon for a miſnomer; ſhe ought to have written the RED SEX; for almoſt all now reſemble Rouge Dragon in Heraldry; to be ſure, the preſent dreſs makes them re⯑ſembles Heraldic animals, and Swift's yahoos. The Edi⯑tor, famous amongſt her friends for never wearing any cap or hat that did not become her ſort of face, nor any colour that did not become her complexion, and was perpetually conſulted on that ſubject by her friends, cannot help think⯑ing, that the Father of Miſchief has been the inventor of the preſent mode of dreſſing, particularly the vile, ſcooped out hats, or rather ſtraw caps; ſhe therefore ſtyles them Diabolls. It is no wonder that huſbands go aſtray from wives ſo odiouſly disfigured.

That all polite attentions from gentlemen to ladies is at an end, is a charge perhaps too well founded. An excel⯑lent exaltedly pious friend of the Editor's, but lately gone to glory, the lady of the late very worthy amiable Thomas Baber, Eſquire, of Sunninghill Park, and who had the hap⯑pineſs to be the mother of Edward Baber, Eſquire, well known to all in the Eaſt for his inflexible honeſty. He had the happineſs of throughly pious, as well as accompliſhed parents. This lady, once a moſt celebrated beauty, uſed to ſay, ‘"The young men of this day are quite Hottentots; all I expect of them is, that, if I happen to fall down, [cccxiv] they will be ſo good as to kick me aſide, and not walk over me."’ The Editor fears the charge may be too true; but ſhe feels it a duty incumbent on her to ſay, ‘"that if politeneſs to females is baniſhed from every other place, it has taken up its reſidence amongſt the young gentle⯑men of the univerſity of Oxford—true politeneſs extending ever to aged females."’

The Editor, as has been mentioned before, has at ſixty every accompliſhment that ſome are without at eighty; frequently, if walking alone, ſtepping into a grey puddle, miſtaking it for a nice clean broad ſtone. The polite at⯑tentions from young gentlemen in aſſiſting her to croſs the ſtreet, ſometimes accompanying her half a ſtreet's length to direct her to a ſhop, opening the door for her, always giving her the wall, not driving her off the pave⯑ment, as two officers did a few years ago at Newcaſtle, ſhe leaning on her huſband's arm—he being dreſſed in a ſhort caſſock, they ſuppoſed him a biſhop, as they ſaid en paſſant, and knew (worthy wights!) he could not challenge them, but he ſeverely reproved their brutality. The Editor happened to hear that the wife of one of them amply re⯑venged her quarrel. He almoſt deſerved it.

The Editor certainly owes her life to the polite humanity of one gentleman, whoſe name, although ſhe took much pains to learn it, ſhe never could find out, until the even⯑ing [cccxv] before ſhe quitted Magdalene Lodge, at the cloſe of November 1795, or every grateful, reſpectful attention would have been rendered to the Reverend Mr. Williams, Sub-warden of Wadham College.

A Lady of faſhion, well known in the polite circles, now of an age, as well as the Editor, to dreſs for comfort, not for ſhew, having an houſe in the neigbourhood of Oxford, often walking in the ſtreet with the Editor, ſaid, ‘"Your remark is very juſt, that the young men here are certainly very well-bred; if they were not, they would laugh at us—for, to be ſure, you with your black beaver gypſey hat, tied down and hiding half your little (politeneſs prevented her adding, withered) face, and your ruſty black cloak; and I in my old hat and old great coat, are two curious enough figures."’ The Editor's excellent relation and herſelf are both old-faſhioned, in making it a point to pay their butcher and baker every Monday morning. And the Editor uſed always to tell Dr. Berkeley, and her Son, when ſhe got a lecture for walking out in a morning without a ſervant, that ſhe did not like a footman attending her, when ſhe did not appear as if ſhe could pay him his wages.

The Editor never met with any impertinence, but twice, during her ſejour in Oxford.—One day walking by Baliol College, a poor creature in (ſhe ſuppoſes) a ſervitor's gown, [cccxvi] expreſſing his diſlike of her hat, and after ſhe was paſſed, ſaid, ‘"he would give a crown to know who ſhe was,"’ the Editor languiſhed to have turned on her heel, and have ſaid, ‘"Young man, ſave your crown to buy Truſler's edition of 'Lord Cheſterfield's Advice to the amiable Phil. Stanhope.'—I will tell you, without reward, that I am the wife of Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury;"’ but, having with her a lady who always returns pertneſs by ſilent diſdain (which affects not fools, it may wiſe perſons) the Editor's generoſity in gratifying the poor low-lived crea⯑tures curioſity gratis would have hurt her dignity. The other was, one very hot evening, the Editor had taken in her hand a para-ſol; a ſhower coming on, ſhe held it over her head, to protect a very good hat. Not far from Chriſt⯑church ſhe met a number of gentlemen, puſhing home from the ſhower, who all paſſed her with their uſual politeneſs, ſtepping off the very narrow pavement, to avoid incom⯑moding her; the rear was brought up by a little inſignificant looking animal in a gown, who in a voice, reſembling any thing but that of a young man, ſqueaked out, ‘"Look, look, here is a lady holding a para-ſol over her in this violent ſhower—what a fool ſhe muſt be!!!"’ The Editor heard two or three of the gentlemen ſay, ‘"Not at all—it did not rain (ſhe ſuppoſes they added) when ſhe ſet out."’ The name of this wiſe little miſs, in a black gown, is concealed in pity to his poor parents—it is enough to be burthened with ſuch a poor little [cccxvii] creature, without ſeeing him held up to public con⯑tempt.

A very worthy friend of the Editor's, whom ſhe has not had the delight of ſeeing for many years, Mrs. M. Jeffries, of Richmond, uſed formerly to ſay, ‘"One has no pleaſure in hearing ſcandal from Mrs. George Berkeley, for the little d [...]l will never tell one the name, until all the town rings with it."’ The exquiſitely kind attentions of this wonderfully agreeable, worthy lady, to the Editor's angelic friend, the late Mrs. Catharine Talbot (when her excellent friend, the Marchioneſs de Grey, lent her houſe at Richmond to Mrs. Talbot), during her lingering illneſs, muſt ever endear her to the Editor, although it is little likely ſhe ſhould every ſee her again, until they meet in the region of ſpirits, as both are much attached to their own abode.

Quiting theſe two curious beings, the Servitor and ſqueaking Miſs, to thank themſelves for theſe animadver⯑ſions, the Editor returns her beſt thanks to all, and every ſenſible polite young gentleman of the Univerſity. They reſemble, in ſome reſpects, holy Job, who ſays, ‘"Eyes was I to the blind, feet was I to the lame,"’ &c. The Editor ſincerely hopes, that they may never be afflicted as he was; and that thoſe of her polite aſſiſters, who chooſe to marry, may meet with wiſer and more pious wives than [cccxviii] at firſt fell to the lot of, certainly a favourite of the ALMIGHTY's; HE naming him one of the three with Noah and Daniel, who ſhould deliver their own ſouls. This is mentioned to ſhew, to thoſe who believe the in⯑ſpiration of Scripture, the folly of ſuppoſing the hiſtory of Job a pious fable, and that holy man an ideal perſon. See poor Dr. Durell's ſimple book; and, in all other reſpects, the accompliſhed Mrs. Chapone's wiſe one, on this ſubject.

Since writing the above, the Editor has had the diſtreſs to hear of the almoſt ſudden death of a throughly amiable man, who accidentally meeting her at tea at a neighbouring gen⯑tleman's houſe, and learning, not from the Editor, who is not addicted to entertain her friends or viſitors with lamen⯑tations, that ſhe had much intricate^*, unpleaſant buſineſs to ſtruggle through; viſited her the next day, ſaying, ‘"he [cccxix] was going to town in a few days. and if it was poſſible for him to render her any ſervice, in any way, he ſhould eſteem himſelf very happy if ſhe would, as he po⯑litely ſaid, honour him with her commands."’ The Edi⯑tor accepted moſt gratefully his kind offer, and took leave to employ him in a very fatiguing matter, in which his amiability led him to be indefatigable. That it is not yet accompliſhed, nor probably ever will, was not to be attri⯑buted to want of every exertion of the amiable Dr. Ser⯑grove, maſter of Pembroke College. This produced a de⯑gree of intimacy. Mrs. Berkeley, ever wiſhing, with little ability, to benefit all her friends children, took the liberty to recommend to his attention and protection, a very ſen⯑ſible, fine youth of his College, a ſon of the very worthy Mr. Andrews, ſurgeon at Stanmore in Middleſex, one of fourteen olive-branches to whom this throughly amia⯑ble hearted, benevolent man was exceedingly attentive and kind, and told the Editor, ‘"that it had pleaſed him, and he dared ſay would pleaſe her, that young Andrews had, on Dr. Johnſon's rooms becoming vacant, earneſtly ſo⯑licited to have them aſſigned to him."’ Young Andrews and his whole family, have as ſtrong underſtandings as Dr. Johnſon. They are famed for it. May he make as good uſe of it as did his predeceſſor in the rooms! This agreable friend viſited at Magdalene Lodge three days be⯑fore he went to town—to return, alas! no more—requeſt⯑ing Mrs. Berkeley and Mrs. Frinſham earneſtly to honour [cccxx] him, as he politely termed it, by drinking tea, and ſpend⯑ing the evening at the Maſter's lodgings, ſaying, he would invite ſome ladies, whom he named, the rector of Lincoln, and ſome other ſenſible, agreable friends to meet them. The very tender ſtate of Mrs. Berkeley's health forced her to decline it, which ſhe now regrets. He promiſed to viſit Datchet; alas! may his obliged friend meet him in a ſtill pleaſanter place.

Mrs. Berkeley, on her reviſiting Oxford for a few days, offered for the Reverend Mr. Williams's acceptance, and which ſhe hopes he received, one of the copies on royal paper, gilt, &c. (ſo decorated for ſome Lords Spiritual and Temporal,) of Dr. Berkeley's famous long ſmothered ſermon, preached at Lambeth Palace Chapel, at the conſecration of his beloved old friend Biſhop Horne, which ſhe ſolemnly promiſed Dr. Berkeley on his death bed, at his earneſt in⯑junction, ſhould be publiſhed.

The Editor, as perhaps ſhe may have before mentioned, never had any very great dread of the diſapprobation of ſin⯑ful mortals like herſelf; and, as ſhe one day ſaid to her beloved partner, ‘"the removal of her dear Son had anni⯑hilated that little fear."’ If ſhe can approve her conduct to what Dr. Young, with his wonted energy, terms ‘"the God within us, and to God in heaven;"’ ſhe little re⯑gards the cenſures of any Prelates or Potentates on earth. [cccxxi] This non chalance of the opinion of, what is called, the WORLD, ſhe by no means recommends to young perſons of either ſex, or to mothers who have daughters that they wiſh to marry off; tout au contraire, ſhe dehorts them from it. A proper reſpect for the then WORLD, ſhe is perſuaded, did, in the laſt century, prevent ſome of our great-grand⯑mothers being exhibited at Doctors Commons, and before the Houſe of Peers. To be ſure, they had alſo a little fear of a great PERSONAGE, that our modern belles and beaux, many of them, never even heard of from their wiſe, pru⯑dent parents.

The late excellent Lady [...] once ſaid to the Editor, ‘"My father and mother were what the world called mighty good ſort of people; and yet I do declare, neither of them ever mentioned any thing of religion to me, nor ever even told me that I had a ſoul to be ſaved."’ Upon the Editor's ſaying, ‘"they muſt have done it, but you have forgotten it;"’ ſhe reddened with anger, and anſwered, ‘"No, no; you are the only human being that ever talked to me on the ſubject of religion."’ Her father lived till ſhe was twenty-three, her mother until ſhe had a grand⯑child of this daughter marriageable. The miniſter of her father's pariſh was what the world termed a very good cler⯑gyman; probably he had not ſtudied, he muſt have redde, as it is a Sunday leſſon, the thirty-third chapter of the pro⯑phet Ezekiel.

[cccxxii] The once gay (as vicious is too frequently termed) Lord Holland, in his account of himſelf, written a little before his execution, praiſes the wonderful mercy of God in the following words: ‘"Oh! the aſtoniſhingly gracious mercy of God, that I ſhould owe my ſalvation to a child ^* of my OWN—I who have ſo ſadly neglected the inſtruction of my children and ſervants in piety and the knowledge of God. I always did take care to have a good chaplain in the houſe to read prayers daily, and inſtruct my children and my ſervants in religion; BUT I OUGHT alſo to have done it myſelf, as ehildren attend much more to what comes from a parent, than from others not ſo intereſted for them,"’ &c. &c.

The Editor, ſome years ago, returning from Scotland to Canterbury, amuſed herſelf with viſiting every nobleman's houſe in her road, or that did not take her too far out of her road, to view the fine pictures, &c. She ſaw a chapel at every one, and conſtantly ſaid to the attending ſervant, ‘"I ſuppoſe that you have prayers here every day."’—‘"No, Madam, never."’ Here muſt be excepted the chapel at [cccxxiii] Alnwick Caſtle. The queſtion aſked, was anſwered by the ſenſible obliging Mrs. Carr, the houſekeeper: ‘"O yes, Madam, every day, excepting Sundays, when his Grace (the late Duke of Northumberland) always goes, attended by all the family, to the pariſh church."’ His Grace's children and ſervants will not riſe in judgement againſt him at the LAST GREAT DAY, when every PEER, as well as every PEDLAR, muſt meet every Servant they have ever had under their roof. May they do it with joy, and not with grief!

The reaſon aſſigned by God for his regard of an holy Patriarch was, ‘"For I know Abraham, that he will com⯑mand (not civilly deſire) his children, and his houſehold after him, and they ſhall keep the way of the LORD,"’ &c. The LORD printed in capitals always implies [...]—‘"It is great pity, as ſweet Dr. Watts obſerves, that our tranſla⯑tors have not always tranſlated it, as in ſome few places, Jehovah."’ It would have prevented the writing of many volumes and much cavilling. Let them divert themſelves with cavilling as long as they can—there are no Socinians or Arians in HELL. Let the honeſt ones among them read Mr. Hawtry, and the aſtoniſhingly curious treatiſe of the late very learned Reverend Meredith Jones, chaplain to the preſent father of the Bench, the Reverend Sir William Aſhburnham, Lord Biſhop of Chicheſter, whoſe exquiſitely polite, amiable attentions to the late Dr. Berkeley were [cccxxiv] were ever ſo gratefully felt by him, that he conſtantly brought his Lordſhip's letters to the Editor to preſerve carefully.

After an abſence of ſome months from England, on his return, Mrs. Berkeley ſaid to her Son, ‘"Oh! my dear Berkeley, I can introduce you to the moſt delightful of women."’

Mr. B.—‘"Pray, my dear Madam, do it then; for you know how much I admire a woman of ſuperior under⯑ſtanding; and I am ſure, if ſhe was not ſuch, although you never deſpiſe thoſe who have not, you would not ſtyle her delightful."’

Mrs. B.—‘"She has indeed; and it is ſo cultivated, and ſo wonderfully well informed, by much travelling; ſo highly poliſhed, and withal 'bears her faculties ſo meekly,' as your idol Shakſpeare ſpeaks, that you will be in raptures with her."’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, my dear Mother, who is ſhe?"’

Dr. B.—‘"Why ſhe is a Jeweſs. You know I often tell your Mother, that ſhe has friends amongſt 'Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Heretics.'’ (See one of the Good Friday Col⯑lects—alluding to Mrs. Berkeley's having one beloved friend, alas! who believes not in God, ſome Roman Ca⯑tholic, [cccxxv] and ſome Preſbyterian friends.) ‘"She has really now a Jew friend, and a moſt pleaſing woman ſhe is."’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, but her name, my dear Sir. Who knows but I may make up to her, convert her to Chriſti⯑anity, and marry her; for, to be ſure, ſhe is rich, being a Jeweſs."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Marry her; why, although the Levitical Law allows of polygamy, much as you and I have both ſtudied it, I do not find that it allows the ladies to have a plurality of huſbands. That is only allowed to one caſt in the Eaſt Indies, where the woman is allowed four, who all, like wiſe men, vie with each other, who ſhall be moſt aſſiduous, moſt agreeable, preſent her the beſt gifts; whilſt we European women, that is, ſome few old faſhioned creatures, are ſtudying perpetually how to pleaſe our huſbands, as that horrid old faſhioned writer, St. Paul, directs, 'The woman that is married careth for the things of the world, how ſhe may pleaſe her huſband."’

The wonderfully witty ſiſter of the Editor often ſays, ‘"Aye, aye, it might be ſo in St. Paul's time; but their care now, ſeems to be to pleaſe every man but their huſband; and he, poor ſoul, is left to pleaſe himſelf as well as he can. Well, well; there muſt be a reckoning for it ſome time hence, poor ſilly creatures!"’

[cccxxvi] Mrs. Berkeley told her Son, that if he was ambitious of uniting himſelf with a deſcendant of the Father of the Faithful, the FRIEND OF GOD,—delightful title which all ſhould ſtrive to merit—all who do ſtrive in earneſt may at⯑tain—he muſt look out for himſelf; for that her lovely friend had been many years the happy wife of the ſenſible, learned, highly accompliſhed, throughly polite Raphael Brandon, Eſquire.

Mr. Brandon writes Engliſh as correctly, and very much more elegantly, than many eminent Engliſh ſcholars. The Editor has letters of this gentleman's carefully preſerved, that prove the truth of this aſſertion; ſhe expreſſing ſome ſurprize at it, was told by Mr. Brandon, that on his coming from Portugal to England, at about ſeventeen, the maſter appointed to teach himſelf and brother Engliſh, re⯑commended it to them to ſtudy diligently Biſhop Lowth's Engliſh Grammar, which he has done to excellent effect. The Editor adviſes all youths, ſons of her friends, who are going into navy, army, or the Eaſt, unable to enjoy that great, ſolid bleſſing of an Engliſh univerſity education, to purchaſe, and ſtudy it. Many have followed the advice, and bleſſed her for it. It diſtreſſes one to hear a brave Admiral, or valiant General, ſpeaking as incorrectly as an Abigail.

[cccxxvii] The writing the word Jew, brings to the Editor's recol⯑lection, and ſhe cannot deny herſelf the pleaſure of writing, and, ſhe hopes, ſome few feeling hearts the pleaſure of reading, a little anecdote of Mr. Monck Berkeley, and ſome Canterbury Jews. About the year 1785, the ſhop of a very reſpectable woollen-draper and maſter-tailor was broke open, and robbed of goods and money to a large amount. Every one was at a loſs to gueſs who had done the deed, excepting the worthy ſufferer. A gentleman of large for⯑tune, of ſtrict integrity, on whom the Editor beſtowed the title of RHADAMANTHUS, as apt to ſay unpleaſant things, as his ſweetly amiable ſon is to utter pleaſing ones, thought proper to ſay, ‘"Mr. [...] (the name not recollected by the Editor) had robbed himſelf."’ This naturally rouzed the honeſt man, who ſaid, ‘"he muſt now find out the burg⯑larian at any rate."’ He immediately procured a war⯑rant to apprehend his journeyman, who had ſerved a ſeven years' apprenticeſhip to him, and behaved himſelf in the moſt exemplary manner. He immediately accuſed his accomplice, a journeyman hair-dreſſer. They were both examined by the Mayor, and committed to priſon. Mr. Berkeley coming home, the Editor at dinner aſked him ‘"if he knew this young Jew who had committed the robbery;"’ to which he replied, ‘"Poor creature, he had never committed this, nor probably any other robbery, if he had not been drawn in by a vile raſcal of a Chriſ⯑tian, as he is by courteſy ſtyled, a villain. It was [cccxxviii] moving to hear how excellent a character his worthy maſter gave of him, until, he ſaid, within theſe laſt few months, that he became acquainted with this Chriſtian raſcal, when he became idle, and, of courſe, vicious."’ No human being, ſurely, ever had a greater dread of idle⯑neſs than Mr. Monck Berkeley; and often, during the lat⯑ter part of his illneſs, uſed to exclaim, ‘"What an idle life I lead! Surely God will, I fear, call me into judgement for it. I do nothing; I write nothing."’

Mr. Berkeley lamented, that, through the ſtupidity of the then town clerk, the poor creature had not been admitted to bail. After dinner he retired to his own apartment, and conſulted his law books. He was to leave Canterbury very early the next morning, in company with his very amiable neighbour, William Deedes, Junior, Eſquire, of St. Stephen's, Canterbury, both being obliged to keep term that day at the Temple—Mr. Deedes, that he might not idle away a large eſtate, which he now poſſeſſes and ſpends moſt worthily; Mr. Berkeley, that he might get one, as he probably would have done, had it pleaſed God to have bleſſed him with health.

About eleven o'clock at night Mr. Berkeley came home, and thus accoſted his Mother: ‘"My dear Madam, you muſt be pleaſed to promiſe me, that you will go to-mor⯑row morning, the minute you have breakfaſted, before [cccxxix] you go to church, to this poor creature's parents, and tell them, that if they do not retain Garrow to plead for their ſon, he will certainly be ſentenced to death—that Gar⯑row can and will get him off. I know he has a cauſe this aſſize at Maidſtone, and if they will give him ſixty guineas he will come on to Canterbury. Don't let them hackle with him; for he will not come for a leſs fee, and I know he will come for that; and I repeat it, and I de⯑ſire you to ſay, that nothing elſe can ſave their ſon—poor fellow!"’

Mrs. B.—‘"I know not even where they live."’

Mr. B.—‘"Oh! John will find that out for you."’

Mrs. B.—‘"I do not know them; and they would think it very odd in me, an ignorant woman"’—

Mr. B.—‘"Odd or even, beſt of Mothers, if you don't this minute promiſe me ſolemnly that you will go, and ſay what I have deſired you, I will take my hat, and knock them up, and tell it them myſelf."’

To prevent her Son's going, Mrs. Berkeley, though with but an indifferent grace, made the promiſe, and after prayers the family retired. In the morning, a little before five, the hour the chaiſe was ordered, Mr. Berkeley crept into the chamber like a zephyr, that he might not diſturb his [cccxxx] Father, a very bad ſleeper, and repeated in his Mother's ear all ſhe was to ſay. The promiſe once obtained, he had no uneaſineſs on that ſcore. The Editor, after breakfaſt, ſet off for Beſt's Lane, where ſhe witneſſed ſuch a ſcene, as (her dear compaſſionate Son being removed) ſhe truſts, and thinks, no one can ever again compel her to witneſs.

On entering the houſe, ſhe ſaw affliction perſonified in the figure of a decent middle-aged woman. Mrs. Berke⯑ley, conceiving her the mother of the unfortunate young man, began condoling with her. Soon coming to the point, telling her who ſhe was, and delivering her Son's meſſage, the poor woman exclaimed, ‘"My God, what goodneſs! that ſuch a gentleman ſhould condeſcend to think about ſuch a poor wretch as I am. Oh! may God reward him!!! Well! to be ſure, ſomebody did tell me that a fine young gentleman, one of the Prebendary's Sons, did ſay, walking on the Parade with other gentle⯑men, that my poor boy need not have been committed to gaol."’ She inſtantly roſe, and called her huſband. On his entering the room, ſhe repeated Mr. Berkeley's meſſage with delight—when, horrid to relate,—what can one call him? not a deſcendant of Abraham by Sarah, not a Sara⯑cen, as the deſcendants of Eſau ſtyle themſelves, that they be not miſtaken for the deſcendants of Abraham by Hagar. he muſt have been an Iſhmaelite, worſe than an Iſhmaelite; for not only his hand, but his HORRID tongue, was againſt [cccxxxi] his own child; for, in an hoarſe ſurly voice, he ſaid, ‘"No, no; I ſhall do not ſuch thing; let him take his chance; if he can't get off, he muſt be hanged."’ Mrs. Berkeley, on ſeeing the agonies of the poor diſtracted mother, longed to have ſaid to him, ‘"You will be damned."’ She did, however, re⯑ſtrain her indignation a little, and joined the ſupplications of the wretched Mother, elevated with Mr. Berkeley's meſſage into confidence of her poor ſon's life, now thrown into the deepeſt deſpair. Never did the Editor ſo much wiſh for a large fortune as at that moment, to have given the mother the fee for the counſel that Mr. Monck Berkeley ſo earneſtly recommended. After finding all ſoothing utterly in vain, ſhe gave a looſe to her indignation, ſaying every thing that it ſuggeſted to her. At length, bidding farewel to this wretched mourning mother, ſhe returned home, without deigning to look at the old father. Much it may be ſup⯑poſed he felt this. Not ſo his kind adviſer, Mr. Monck Berkeley. One of the Editor's minor puniſhments for her children, when young, until ten or twelve years old, was, ‘"You have not behaved well, in ſo, or ſo; I will not look at you until to-morrow dinner time."’ This was ſo keenly felt by her eldeſt Son, Mr. Monck Berkeley, that he would often, in the ſweeteſt voice, ſupplicate, ‘"Now do forget it, and look at me a little."’ A proof this, of what the Editor frequently aſſerts, ‘"That a little common ſenſe, and great ſteadineſs, may reſcue children from much cor⯑poral [cccxxxii] puniſhment, and make a more laſting impreſſion on their minds."’

Compaſſion carried her, ſometimes, when taking her morning walk, to viſit this ‘"Houſe of moarning."’ This melancholy affair happened ſeveral weeks before the aſſizes. The wretch remained inflexible, and the poor mother in ſuch a ſtate of deſpair, as never to waſh her hands or face, put on or take off her cloaths, ſitting the whole day without uttering a word. At length, juſt before the trial was to come on, ſome more powerful orator than Mrs. Berkeley; probably ſome modern TERTULLUS, prevailed on the old wretch to ſend and retain Mr. Garrow, who came on from Maidſtone to Canterbury; and, as Mr. Berkeley had fore⯑told, got the poor young Jew off for tranſportation for life. Some kind Chriſtian neighbour (for ſhe and her children were eſteemed by all, as the poor ſoul juſtly ſaid, for more than twenty years paſt) flew out of the Guildhall, and told her the ‘"joyful tidings."’—She ſtarted up, fell on her knees, thanked God, went up ſtairs, dreſſed herſelf neatly as formerly, went out to the fiſh-market, and ordered hom her matters for her family as uſual.

Dr. Berkeley, on hearing it, as all the city was talking of it, expreſſed his aſtoniſhment, that the mind could ſo ſoon, after ſuch length of time, recover its wanted energy. The Editor, it may be ſuppoſed, did not fail to call in Beſts [cccxxxiii] Lane, and obey the delightfully pleaſing injunction of the Apoſtle—‘"Rejoice with them that do rejoice."’ The worthy woman's gratitude, aſcribing the temporal ſalvation of her ſon to Mr. Monck Berkeley's judicious, amiably kind advice, in which all agreed, was very delightful to the fond heart of his happy mother.

It is impoſſible to omit mentioning here, that, in the year 1793, Dr. Berkeley had with him, at Canterbury, Mr. Patrick Satterley, eldeſt ſon of the ſkilful, ſucceſsful, humane Mr. Satterley, ſurgeon and apothecary, of Haſtings, for whom Dr. Berkeley had taken a lodging, accidentally, at a ſilverſmith's in Palace Street, whoſe worthy wife was ſiſter to the young man reſcued from the gallows by Mr. Berkeley. Mr. Satterley getting a violent fever, and Dr. Berkeley going to him, they diſcovered that he was the father of their brother's benefactor, and immediately declared that no nurſe was neceſſary, for that they eſteemed it their duty to render every poſſibly attention to any friend of that dear good Mr. Berkeley, who had been the means of reſcuing their poor brother from an ignominious death.

Mr. Berkeley, on going to Haſtings, was told by his ſurgeon in town, Mr. Blicke, that he would find a moſt ſkilful, attentive, medical man in Mr. Satterley. This gentleman is famous for reſcuing perſons from ‘"the houſe appointed, at length, for all the deſcendant of Adam,"’ [cccxxxiv] ‘"Apoſtate Adam,"’ as good Dr. Joſhua Smith ſtyles him, in his "Hickes's Pſalms." The aged, he, by God's bleſſing, on his great medical ſkill, preſerves, in comfortable health, to extreme old age—the dreadfully raſh young, who preſume to ruſh, uncalled, into the preſence of ‘"the great Judge of quick and dead,"’ by his great chirurgical ſkill. The Editor knows two thus happily reſcued by him; and ſhe knows of ſeveral others—one old wretch, the late ***********, the murderer of her amiable accompliſhed friend, the late Judge Advocate of *******.

Mr. Satterley, preſuming to give himſelf a few holydays, to make a viſit to his eldeſt ſon, a very elegant amiable young man, at Oxford, of whom he ſaid to Mr. Monck Berkeley, ‘"That young man, from a child, has never done that thing that I wiſhed him not to do;"’ this horrid old monſter diſmiſſed Mr. Satterley, and called in other medical aid, who, in one ſhort fortnight, diſmiſſed HIM—to a place whence he will never return, until called to meet the amiable, throughly Honourable Mr. *******. This old monſter had prefixed to his name (by birth) that pretty elegant word, which ſhould remind all who poſſeſs it, not to diſgrace it, Honourable *****.

The Editor is ſometimes, by one or two of her gnat⯑ſtraining, although not camel-ſwallowing friends, accuſed of want of charity, in gueſſing at the place of abode of ſome [cccxxxv] departed ſpirits; to which ſhe replies, from her old-faſhioned book, ‘"The HOLY SPIRIT declares, that without HOLINESS no man, or woman either, however beautiful, &c. ſhall ſee the LORD."’ Do you think that General [...], or Mrs. [...], were HOLY perſons? The Editor has no doubt, but that many very ^* good ſort of people will declare, that the Editor's Preface deſerves to be burnt by the hands of the common hangman; but, if it benefits or conſoles one ſingle ſoul, ſhe will eſteem herſelf happy.

The laſt time the Editor viſited Canterbury, alas! ſhe called on the worthy Iſraelites, to thank them for their kind gratitude ſhewn to Mr. Patrick Satterley; when they re⯑peated to her what they had, as above related, ſaid to Dr. Berkeley. There are certainly ſome ‘"double diſtilled ſuperfine elegant"’ CHRISTIANS in Canterbury, who might have learned gratitude from theſe Jews in humble ſtation.

When Mr. Monck Berkeley was a very little boy, the very reſpectable [...] Henchman, Eſquire, of the India Houſe, loſing his worthy father before he was fourteen, was ſent off to India. On bidding adieu to his elegant mo⯑ther, he threw his arms about her; ſaying, ‘"Farewel, my dear mother; God only knows whether we ſhall ever meet again in this world. But comfort yourſelf with this, [cccxxxvi] that as I leave you an honeſt boy, whether I live or die, by God's bleſſing, you ſhall never hear of me but as an honeſt man."’ So ſaying, he quitted the houſe; and, from what the Editor gathers from her news-paper, Mr. Henchman ſeems to keep his charming early promiſe. The Editor has not the pleaſure of being at all acquainted with him, having never ſeen him ſince his return from India, The above little anecdote is related verbatim, as it was told to Dr. Berkeley and herſelf at the time, by their ſenſible agreeable friend, the late Reverend Humphrey Henchman, Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford. Both theſe gentle⯑men were grand and great-grandſons of Biſhop Henchman of London. This ſtory was very frequently told to Mr. Monck Berkeley by his Mother, during his childhood and youth, with exhortations to make the ſame reſolution. Mr. Berkeley uſed frequently to ſay, ‘"Whatever faults I have, I thank God, and my dear Mother, that I am an honeſt man."’ He was in truth ſo; and, it may with equal truth be aſſerted, a man of the ſtricteſt honour^*.

[cccxxxvii] The Editor has to return her moſt grateful heartfelt ac⯑knowledgements for the wonderfully kind, amiable atten⯑tions of the Reverend Dr. Lynch, Prebendary of Canter⯑bury, for his inceſſant unwearied exertions in endeavouring to lighten her heavy buſineſs at Canterbury. It was her miſ⯑fortune, not his fault, that he happened to pitch upon the laſt man in England whom ſhe would have appointed her ſurveyor, and more particularly as he owed very great obli⯑gations to Dr. Berkeley. The Editor, ſome weeks ago, being adviſed by a printer to apply to a paper-maker, a very rich man, for paper to print off the ſecond volume of Lite⯑rary Relics prepared by Mr. Monck Berkeley; the ſup⯑plying it was civilly declined. The Editor remarked, that ſhe was ſure, before ſhe wrote, that it would, becauſe he was under very important obligations to Dr. Berkeley. The very worthy bookſeller, the obliging Mr. Cook, of Oxford, ſaid, ‘"Do I underſtand you right, Madam?"’—‘"Yes, Sir, I have, in repeated inſtances, ſince my loſs of Dr. Berke⯑ley, [cccxxxviii] experienced it; as, through the goodneſs of God, I have met with numerous inſtances of real friendſhip, where neither on Dr. Berkeley's or my own account I had any right to expect any attention but civility."’ It is impoſſible for the Editor to paſs on without inſerting here the name of the witty, worthy William Hey, Eſquire, Commiſſioner of the Cuſtoms, for his unwearied exer⯑tions to ſerve her: the noble, the angelic conduct of the worthy Mrs. Taylor, of Clarges Street, Piccadilly, an eléve of the lovely Mrs. Catharine Talbot, who had the hap⯑pineſs to live with her many years; who, hearing that the Editor (not caring to coin) was in ſome difficulties, moſt generouſly wrote to her, offering to ſell out her whole for⯑tune to lend to Mrs. Berkeley, the ſtocks then at ſixty-five. It may eaſily be gueſſed what anſwer the Editor returned to this wonderful offer—may HE who ſeeth in ſecret, reward her openly!—Indeed ſhe has as many friends as acquaintances. Yes, may HE who rewardeth every man according to his works, reward theſe worthy compaſionate friends—com⯑paſſionate I repeat; for an aged matron, without a ſon, although not quite a beggar, may be, very often is, a great object of compaſſion.

The Editor's thanks are particularly due, her prayers are daily offered at the throne of Grace—may they be heard, and anſwered an hundred, a thouſand fold, on them and theirs—to her excellent old friend, Sir Richard Hill, for [cccxxxix] the trouble he has taken, is perpetually ſtill taking, con⯑cerning her affairs, Engliſh and Iriſh. To the amiable Dr. Lynch, as above mentioned, to the very learned, grateful Mr. Sawkins, ſtudent of Chriſt Church, for literally forcing money upon her, when ſhe could not procure a guinea from Ireland, enabling her to pay a quarter's ſalary to one of Dr. Berkeley's Curates, who wrote twice before Dr. Berkeley had been dead three weeks. The ſalary became due on the 21ſt of December, 1794. Mrs. Berkeley loſt her beloved Partner on the 6th of January, 1795, exactly ſixteen days after. Dr. Berkeley, whether he received money or not from Ireland, was always moſt ſcrupulouſly, conſcientiouſly, careful to pay his Curates' ſalary, from the time that he had the happineſs at twenty-ſix of having his beloved, re⯑ſpected friend, the very learned Mr. John Whitaker^*, the able, the unanſwerable Vindicator of Mary Queen of Scots, in that relation to him, as alſo the excellently pious Philip Gurdon^† of Aſſenwick Hall, in Suffolk, both gentlemen of [cccxl] fortune; but the idea of detaining a Curate's ſalary, how⯑ever rich he might be, always hurt him. It is ſuppoſed the worthy man who applied ſo expeditiouſly to his relict, conceived that ſhe could not be hurt, but by a pair of red hot pincers.—A young Sprig of Divinity alſo, too old to have acted thus, whoſe worthy father ever gratefully ac⯑knowledged himſelf under high obliations to Dr. Berkeley on many accounts, pecuniary as well as other, employed a [cccxli] LAWYER to write to the Editor, before the interment of her beloved Partner, demanding the payment of—a not very large ſum, borrowed by Dr. Berkeley of his father during Dr. Berkeley's Chancery ſuit in Ireland. The Edi⯑tor is indebted to the goodneſs of Dr. Berkeley's worthy old friend, the Reverened the Dean of Hereford, for anſwering the Lawyer's Letter, and adjuſting matters with this grate⯑ful Divine, who, in his early youth was one of the many quarterers on Dr. Berkeley's wonderful hoſpitality. Pity to the FATHER of the Divinity Sprig prevents his name from appearing in theſe pages. The Editor involuntarily ex⯑claimed, with the antient Sage, ‘"Thrifty, careful of the MAIN chance, as this young man is, I had rather have my dead ſon, than two ſuch living ones."’ He wrote a very fine letter apologetic to the Editor for his prudence; to which, as ſhe was not by her friends permitted to anſwer in her own ſtyle, when wounded, ſhe never returned any anſwer at all; and, only laments, that his zeal to recover ſo ſpeedily a ſum, conſiderably under two hundred pounds, ſhould have reduced him to the meanneſs of falſifying; as the attorney, however clever, could not by inſpiration have dictated the carefully preſerved epiſtle to the Editor, with⯑out orders from his employer. Indeed he therein ſays he had orders, &c—Should this Preface happen to be redde by the Curate, or the Sprig of Divinity; if they keep their own counſel, the Editor means not to publiſh their names, nor to make them known to more perſons than their own [cccxlii] wonderful conduct naturally introduced them to.—Quitting theſe prudent perſons, the Editor turns to more pleaſant ones.

The worthy friends of Mrs. Berkeley, who in that very early period of her affliction viſited ‘"the houſe of mourn⯑ing,"’ laboured to heal, not to tear open, her deep wounds. They thought not, they acted not, like theſe two Divines; but, as was moſt elegantly expreſſed in a polite kind letter of enquiry to a friend, from Mrs. Trenchard of Hendon's Houſe: ‘"My heart bleeds for thoſe two [...] ladies; before their deep wounds for the loſs of Mr. Berkeley are healed, to have them thus torn open afreſh^*."’ Mrs. Trenchard cannot, probably, tranſlate Greek, nor write La⯑tin, quite ſo well as theſe Divines; but ſhe has a highly cultivated mind, and a moſt feeling heart.

The names, as above mentioned, are not communicated, becauſe the Editor believes the haſty Curate a really worthy man, although not bleſſed with quite ſo much delicacy as the wor⯑thy daughter of farmer Strange, of Heddington near Oxford, who, about five months after the death of Dr. Berkeley, preſented a bill to the Editor for corn and hay. On her coming into the room to receive her money, a pretty con⯑ſiderable [cccxliii] ſum, Mrs. Berkeley, enquiring of her why ſhe had not applied before, as ſhe might probably have been glad of it; with the ſpirit of a princeſs, of an angel, ſhe replied, ‘"Good Madam, how could I think of troubling you for a few pounds in your deep affliction? I wonder I could do it now; but I heard you were about to leave Oxford, and I thought perhaps you might not know of this bill; but, if it is any inconvenience to you to pay it now, I am perfectly willing to wait for it."’ May this worthy woman never experience the loſs of her good huſband, and an only child!

The forming this kind wiſh for this amiable-hearted wo⯑man brings to the Editor's mind what occurred many years ago. Walking out one evening, ſhe called at a farm-houſe, to enquire for ſome pigeons. The miſtreſs preſented her⯑ſelf. Mrs. Berkeley, wiſhing to ſhorten her walk home requeſted the good woman to direct her the nearer way in croſſing the fields. Mrs. Berkeley, not to appear proud, began enquiring what family ſhe had? The reply made, ſhe added, ‘"Ah! Madam, I have thrice known the ſorrows of widowhood."’ It had not much injured her health. She was remarkably plump and ‘"well favoured;"’ perhaps ſhe may have ſuffered the ſame ſorrows again. She might, perhaps, be as great a philoſopher as her daughter, who kept a ſhop in the next pariſh, where Dr. Berkeley's family bought many odd things, whoſe daughter, a fine girl of ſe⯑venteen, [cccxliv] was dying of a conſumption. Mrs. Berkeley, one Sunday, at church, enquired after the young woman. On hearing there were no hopes of her recovery, ſhe condoled with the mother, who made the following reply: it is ſet down verbatim. ‘"Good lack-a-day, Madam, why ſhe and I did not come into the world at the ſame time; and why ſhould we think to go out at the ſame time?"’ Probably theſe good women mourned the loſs of relatives, as did a tenant's wife of the late worthy agreeable Capt. Bartlam of Moore Hall. The day after the death of her huſband Mrs. Bartlam called to ſee her, and began condoling with her, to whom ſhe replied, ‘"O good lack-a-daiſy, Madam, 'tis a ſad thing, to be ſure. I have been CRYING all the morn⯑ing long; and as ſoon as ever I have ate this bit of bread and cheeſe, and drank this drap of ale, (a pint,) I muſt go to it again as hard as I can for my life."’

How often has the Editor ſeen a table full of company, at Dr. Berkeley's, laugh until unforced tears bedewed their cheeks, when this ſtory was related, and acted by that beſt of ſtory-tellers, the late delightfully witty Reverend James Hamilton, grandſon of Lord Abercorn, formerly named in this Preface. As alſo, that he ſpent the whole of the ſummer at Dr. Berke⯑ley's, his curate conſtantly going to Mr. Hamilton's houſe in Warwickſhire, in May, and remaining there until November, in order that Mr. Hamilton might, as Dr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"give him all the time he could ſpare from his friends, [cccxlv] the beaſts of the field, the fowls of the air, and the fiſhes of the river."’ Mr. Hamilton, although an excellent ſcholar, was wonderfully fond of hunting, ſhooting, and fiſhing. Dr. Berkeley, living on the banks of the Thames, had al⯑ways a large pleaſure-boat of his own, in which Mr. Hamil⯑ton, an excellent ſailor and rower, was perpetually on the water, alone, early in the morning, but frequently took Mr. Monck Berkeley with him. Mrs. Berkeley, dreading his too volatile agility, feared that, in attempting to ASSIST Mr. Hamilton in ſailing or rowing, he might be drowned; notwithſtanding her ſtrong opinion, ſtill retained by the Editor, although often laughed at by Mr. Hamilton, that infants, if put into the water, would ſwim naturally, as well as puppies, kittens, calves, &c. He often urged her to try the experiment on her own little boy. Mrs. Berkeley told him ſhe was not an experimental philoſopher, and was terribly afraid he might be drowned, with his garments, not provided by nature like kittens, &c^*. begged Mr. [cccxlvi] Hamilton to reject his ſuit, and leave him on the terraſs. One day, ſeeing Mr. Hamilton preparing to ſail, [cccxlvii] he ſcreamed, ‘"Oh! dear Jemmy, pray take me with you."’—‘"No, I muſt not; your Mamma is afraid you will be drowned."’ Mr. Berkeley immediately walked into the Thames in his petticoats, being then little more than three years old, and purſued the boat. Mr. Hamilton, inſtantly putting back, aſked him, if he was not afraid of being drowned, as he muſt have been if he had not put back. The ſpirited little creature replied, ‘"Aye, aye; but I conſidered, before I walked in, that you would certainly come back and take me before the water got up to my chin, becauſe Mamma would have been ſo grieved if I had been drowned."’ The ſame ſound judgement and reſolute ſpirit accompanied him through life.

A Scotch gentleman of conſequence one day, at St. An⯑drews, ſaid to Dr. Berkeley, ‘"Sir, I laſt night ſaw your agree⯑able Son as fou with water as moſt of the company were with wine."’ Dr. Berkeley, who himſelf drank nothing but water, expreſſed his wonder at it. Mrs. Berkeley, ſup⯑poſing the gentleman was a dealer in the marvellous, men⯑tioned it to her Son in that way; to which he replied, ‘"Yes, my dear Madam, it is very true; I am often as drunk with water as others are with wine; with this, however very material difference, that when it is pro⯑poſed to break bottles, glaſſes, and burn chairs, tables, &c. I inſtantly become as ſober as a judge, and have ſometimes prevented much miſchief."’

[cccxlviii] When Mr. Berkeley entered at the univerſity of St. An⯑drews, one of the college officers called upon him to depo⯑ſit a crown to pay for the windows he might break. Mr. Berkeley ſaid, that ‘"as he ſhould reſide in his Father's houſe, it was little likely he ſhould break any windows, having never, that he remembered, broke one in his whole life."’ He was aſſured that he would do it at St. Andrews. He therefore made the depoſit; the cauſe of which he ſome time after learned. On the riſing of the ſeſſion, ſeveral of the ſtudents ſaid, ‘"Now for the win⯑dows. Come, it is time to ſet off; let us ſally forth."’ Mr. Berkeley, being called upon, enquired what was to be done? They, with one voice, replied, ‘"Why, to break every window in college."’—‘"For what reaſon?"’—‘"Oh! no reaſon; but that it has always been done from time immemorial."’ Mr. Berkeley ſedately replied, that he begged to be excuſed joining the party: having never, when a boy at Eton, and ſometimes with more wine in his head than was good for him, performed ſuch a valiant feat, he ſhould feel himſelf exceedingly aſhamed to be guilty of it as a young man. He ſpoke ſo ſenſibly on the ſubject, that the practice was from that time entirely given up, and has probably never been revived. The money continued to be collected, as the following little aneodote will ſhew. A very good kind of man, formerly coachman at Lord Balcarras's, the College Porter, was the collector. He one day told a very intimate friend of Mr. Berkeley's, the young Laird of Kincaldrum, ‘"I am juſt [cccxlix] come from a poor ſtudent indeed. I went for the win⯑dow croon; he cried, begged, and prayed not to pay it, ſaying, 'he brought but a croon to keep him all the ſeſſion, and he had ſpent ſix-pence of it; ſo I have got only four and ſix-pence.' How he is to live I can't tell, for they are very poor."’ Away flew the amiable young Laird, ſaying, ‘"I muſt make a collection for him."’ Amongſt the ſtudents he firſt met Mr. Halket, eldeſt ſon of Sir J. Halket, a beloved Scotch friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley. This charming youth ſaid, ‘"Here, take theſe few ſhillings; it is all I have till I hear from home again."’ The young Laird ſaid, ‘"Such an one will give a ſhilling, and ſuch an one half a crown; and I will make my dear Berkeley give a crown."’ The idea of his ſaying make, diverted the whole univerſity, who all knew Mr. Berkeley's wonderful liberality to the poor. He ſoon met Mr. Berkeley, who not only toſſed out the crown, but ſaid, ‘"We will make a good collection; go you, Bower, (the young Laird's name,) to the Scotch, and I to the Eng⯑liſh."’ Mr. Berkeley poſted home, and made his Father, Mother, and Aunt ſubſcribe largely, as alſo all the Engliſh gentlemen ſtudents. The ſubſcription, when cloſed, was a very noble one. This poor youth was the ſon of a la⯑bourer, who, having two fields, about eight miles from St. Andrews, kept three cows; one cow was ſold to dreſs him for the Univerſity, and put the lamented croon in his pocket, to purchaſe coals. All the lower ſtudents ſtudy by [cccl] fire light. He brought with him a large tub of oatmeal, and a pot of ſalted butter, on which he was to ſubſiſt from the 20th of October until the 20th of May, the ſpace of five months, but for this lucky affair of the croon, and the lovely nature of the young Laird of Kincaldrum, as accom⯑pliſhed as amiable. In what is called in Scotland an high dance, this young gentleman could keep himſelf more than half a minute—near a minute—in air. No one, who has not ſeen a company of Highland ſoldiers dance, can form any idea of it, more than our great-grandſires could of electri⯑city before Dr. Franklin's time.

The very humane worthy college cook agreed with the young Laird and Mr. Berkeley to provide him a good din⯑ner of fleſh or fiſh through the ſeſſion. The Editor is ſorry to ſay, ſome of his countrymen ſaid, ‘"that it was not quite roight of theſe young gentlemen to make this ſubſcription—they might be made every day."’

This brings to the Editor's mind the indignation of, ſhe is very ſorry to ſay, a Divine, againſt her Son at Haſtings, for a ſimilar offence. On the arrival of the three hundred French clergy, within two days, at Haſtings, Mr. Berkeley ſaid to his friend Mr. Grimſton, ‘"It is impoſſible to let theſe poor perſecuted ſtrangers ſtarve in a foreign country; we muſt try and make a ſubſcription for them."’ Mr. Grimſton, jelon ſon coutume, toſſed down his guinea. Mr. [cccli] Monck Berkeley cried, ‘"Stop, ſtop, my dear friend, not ſo faſt, you will ruin all! No, I will draw up their caſe, and you and I will ſet down againſt our names half⯑a-crown each; half-a-crown cannot diſtreſs any one who has any thing to give. We may give as much more as we pleaſe, but ſet down only two ſhillings and ſix-pence."’ They accordingly did ſo, and amongſt their acquaintance got many ſubſcribers. The paper was left at one of the circulating libraries. The following account was related to the Editor by a gentleman who was an eye-witneſs of the tranſaction. The door opened, and a ſtout man entered, ſaying, ‘"Who is this MR. BERKELEY, that makes himſelf of ſuch conſequence, picking people's pockets for theſe French ragamuffins? who is he? what is he?"’ Mr. Berkeley, happening to be in a corner of the library, read⯑ing, roſe, and, advancing with a very graceful bow, in the mildeſt voice replied; ‘"Sir, Mr. Berkeley is a man of no ſort of conſequence, nor pretends to be of any; but, (quoting the Latin line, 'as a man I muſt feel,' &c.) he felt it impoſſible not to try to alleviate the ſufferings of theſe poor unfortunate ſervants of our Bleſſed Maſter; and, as by your habit, Sir, you appear to be of the clerical func⯑tion, I ſhould have hoped you would rather have forwarded than abuſed the attempt to relieve their real neceſſities: no one is compelled ^* in caſes of ſubſcription. Mr. [...] [ccclii] (name not at preſent recollected) the Librarian kindly permitted it to lie here."’ Mr. Berkeley then bowed, and retired to his book again, leaving the oratorical PARSON (the Editor always ſtyles an unworthy clergyman a PARSON) ready to faint with ſhame. One day, after Mr. Berkeley's arrival at Cheltenham, his family all in the drawing-room, he aſked, ‘"Pray, my dear friends, do any of you know Mr. [...], of [...]?"’—‘"No,"’ was the unanimous voice. ‘"Well, you have no great loſs: I am ſorry to add, that he is a Divine."’ Mr. Berkeley then related as above.

Had theſe poor people applied to this Divine, as they did to Mr. Berkeley, on the death of a French Marquis (whoſe title the Editor forgets), they had not, perhaps, been as much conſoled as they were by a young Lawyer. They came to Mr. Berkeley in great anxiety, to know whether it was poſſible for him to get the Marquis buried in con⯑ſecrated ground. He aſſured them it would be impoſ⯑ſible for him or any one elſe to prevent it; adding, ‘"We Proteſtants are certainly better Chriſtians than you Papiſts; for, had I died in France, you would have buried me in a cabbage-garden, or on the ramparts."’ This point ſettled; the next, ‘"would le pauvre cher Marquis [cccliii] have aucune office ſaid over ^* him?"’—Oui certainement.—‘"Ah grace, au bon Dieu; quoi, Monſieur, quoi?"’—Mr. Berkeley ſaid he would ſhew it them. But he went too far, there was not a French Common Prayer Book to be procured in [cccliv] Haſtings. He therefore moſt amiably took his pen, and tranſlated the whole of our delightful burial-ſervice into French for them, excepting the Leſſon and Pſalms, which he ſhewed them in his Greek Teſtament and Latin Bible. [ccclv] They were in extacies with it. They wiſhed to attend the Marquis to the grave; but feared, as the French ever did, being knocked down by the Engliſh. Mr. Berkeley aſſured them, the Engliſh were not ſuch ſavages. But all in vain [ccclvi] was his rhetoric, unleſs Monſieur Berquelée would ‘"avoir la bontée"’ to walk at their head, as chief mourner for le cher Marquis; which, by the undertaker's omitting to bring a cloak, he did in his Royal Archer's coat. In a letter to his mother, he ſays, ‘"Do think of your ſon, marching in pro⯑ceſſion at the head of three hundred French Prieſts, as chief mourner to a poor perſecuted French Noble!"’

The elegant accompliſhed Biſhop of (the Editor thinks) Avranches, on quitting the houſe of a very reſpectable clergyman, who kindly received and entertained him, and requeſted Mr. Monck Berkeley to viſit and converſe with him, the gentlemen not ſpeaking French, his gratitude to Mr. Berkeley, for what his Lordſhip termed his etonante bonté to his poor brethren, and exquiſitely polite attentions to him⯑ſelf, he declared himſelf at a loſs for words to expreſs. He conjured Mr. Berkeley, when things were again ſettled in France, that he would viſit him at his palace. Alas! thou elegant amiable Prelate—thou wilt probably viſit Paradiſe before thou doeſt Paris,

Mr. Berkeley often mentioned with pleaſure the worthi⯑neſs and propriety of many of the three hundred clergy. Not a man would receive a ſhilling who had brought any money with him: others, who had friends in town, would only take barely enough to defray the expence of their journey to London.

[ccclvii] Had the Editor time to look over her Son's letters, ſhe would give his account of the landing of the good old Curate of Dieppe, aged 84; the farewel between him and his flock of ſailors. The Editor remembers, Mr. Berkeley ſays, ‘"There was not, I believe, one dry eye, Engliſh or French, on the ſhore. The good old Paſtor is now gone to London. I have the delight of thinking, that GOD will go with him wherever he goes."’

But to return to the ſubject of dancing, in which the young Laird of Kincaldrum has been already noticed. How delightfully do the Scotch dance every thing but a mi⯑nuet! The firſt time the Editor ſaw her Son (eſteemed a very good dancer, having learned in England and in France for ten years de ſuite) dance a country-dance and cotillon in Scotland, it turned her quite ſick. She thought he danced like a ploughman, until ſome mi⯑nuets were attempted between the country-dances; which a little conſoled her. The next morning ſhe requeſted Mr. Berkeley to let her treat him with a maſter, that he might learn to dance like a Scotch⯑man. The offer was gratefully accepted; and the very able Mr. Jenkins attended Mr. Berkeley every day, greatly to the improvement of Mr. Berkeley, as has been above mentioned, and exceedingly through his kindneſs, to the finances of Mr. Jenkins, who, juſt before, or ſoon after, Mr. Berkeley quitted St. Andrews, by his wiſe [ccclviii] adviſe, migrated to London, where he attended, by Mr. Berkeley's recommendation, many young perſons of high rank and faſhion.

Mr. Berkeley made it a point, when at Oxford, and the Temple, to ſpend every Chriſtmas vacation with his Pa⯑rents. They, although the houſe in the Oaks was not pe⯑culiarly calculated for a ball^*, could not bear the idea of Mr. Berkeley's dancing at many of their neighbours' houſes, and not ſeeing them in return. The houſe could not hold all their numerous acquaintance in and about Canterbury; ſo of Dames d'une certaine age, as the French ſpeak of a middle⯑aged lady, none were invited to cards but the mothers, and of courſe the fathers, of dancing-young-ladies; Mrs. Berkeley, ſaying, like the old father mentioned by Mr. Addiſon in the Spectator, that ſhe did not feel it right to invite young ladies to be made WHIRLYGIGS, without in⯑viting their natural, their beſt chaperons, their mothers, to attend them. One year a moſt throughly reſpectable lady^† [ccclix] ſaid to the Editor, ‘"Madam, I have a great favour to re⯑queſt of you."’—‘"You may command me, Madam."’—‘"It is, that you will permit me to come to your houſe next Tueſday, for one hour. I do not wiſh you to in⯑vite me to the ball, or the card-party; I know you cannot do it; but I hear ſo much from every body of Mr. Berkeley's wonderfully fine dancing, that I do long to ſee him dance; and I never go to any aſſembly, ſo that I have no chance but your admitting me for one hour. I will not ſtay any longer, ſay what you will, I am re⯑ſolved."’

The very worthy Dr. Lambe, Prebendary of Worceſter, became Principal of Magdalene Hall not long after Mr. Berkeley's entering there. He happened to be in the hall when Dr. Lambe arrived; and moſt of the other mem⯑bers were abſent. Mr. Berkeley inſtantly waited on his new ſuperior, and with his uſual polite benignity offered his ſervices in every way in which they could be uſeful. The Editor recollects to have heard her Son ſay, that, after certain neceſſary things performed, and dinner ended, the new Principal aſked Mr. Berkeley, ‘"if they ought not to go to chapel?"’ to which Mr. Berkeley replied in the affirmative, if they could get a reader, and muſter a con⯑gregation. The Editor thinks it was either the com⯑mencement or the end of the term, and that there was only one member in the Hall beſides Mr. Berkeley, who, [ccclx] ſhe thinks, was the very worthy amiable, now Reverend, Mr. Sloman, a beloved, reſpected friend of Mr. Berkeley's, who has frequently delighted the Editor by ſaying, ‘"that he conceived he owed his life to Mr. Berkeley, as did many other gentlemen at the ſame time."’

A party of gentlemen, many of them members of the Hall, had agreed, that on the firſt fine day they would ſail down the river ſome miles—the Editor does not recollect to what place, but thinks it was to Godſtow Abbey. The party conſiſted of eleven; and Mr. Berkeley, ever delight⯑ing to give pleaſure to young and old, begged to take with him a lad, ſon to a lady, a relation of his Mother's, at home for the holydays. Accordingly, on Eaſter Monday they ſet out; when they had ſailed two or three miles, ſome accident happened to the boat; the waterman ſaw it coming, and threw himſelf out; for which Mr. Berkeley always, when mentioning it, ſtyled him a ſad villain, add⯑ing, ‘"He left the whole number to periſh, for he did not know that any of us could ſwim."’ The boat inſtantly overſet; only two of the party could ſwim, Mr. Pearce, nephew to the late Biſhop of Rocheſter; and Mr. Monck Berkeley; being both Eton men, they were good ſwim⯑mers, and ſoon eſcaped to ſhore, when Mr. Pearce humanely ſaid, ‘"Berkeley, we muſt try to ſave them all. Let us go in inſtantly."’ To which Mr. Berke⯑ley replied, ‘"If we do, we are dead men, Pearce. No, [ccclxi] we muſt wait till they are more ſpent, or they will in⯑fallibly cling ſo faſt, that they will ſink us."’ This wiſe advice was followed. Mr. Berkeley firſt reſcued his little kinſman, as conſidering himſelf in ſome ſort reſponſible for him, as a lad of eleven years old, of whom he had taken the charge. After ſome little time, Mr. Pearce and Mr. Berkeley plunged in, and, by the bleſſing of God, brought every one ſafe on ſhore. They ſent to Oxford for coaches, and on their arrival getting rid of their drenched cloaths, Mr. Berkeley immediately wrote to his Mother, aſſuring her, that whatever lamentable hiſtory the newſpa⯑per might happen to make of it, by the mercy of God, he had ſtill the happineſs to be able to ſubſcribe himſelf her dutiful Son, &c. His attentions to the feelings of his Mother, ‘"for an only Son,"’ were inceſſant. The Editor had, from his youth, told Mr. Berkeley, that, if he ſhould be expelled from Eton, or get his name entered in the Black Book at Oxford, ſhe was very ſure that ſhe ſhould lie down and die of grief, as ſhe and he verily believed ſhe would have done. He would frequently through life ſay, ‘"If I do ſo, or ſo, I ſhall kill my Mother."’ He is receiving his bleſſed reward. It may perhaps be ſaid, by thoſe who were intimate in the family, that Mrs. Berkeley was a kind, obliging Mother^*. She laboured [ccclxii] to be ſuch after the time ceaſed when ſhe was to be held up to Mr. Berkeley in terrorem, that is, when he grew up to be a fine ſenſible youth, when, Solo⯑mon tells us, ‘"a word enters more into a wiſe man, than a thouſand ſtripes into a fool."’ A very tight rein in early youth, no rein at all after a certain period; no influence but what ariſes from friendſhip. The Editor never could conceive, that if a young man, or young wo⯑man, choſe to live ſingle till thirty years old, or till twen⯑ty-five, or under, that God, ſpeaking by MOSES, or by St. PAUL, meant they ſhould be treated as at thirteen or fourteen. The Editor has repeatedly obſerved that Iriſh parents are very apt to ſuppoſe, that their authority is to continue to the end of life. The Editor, in early youth, ad⯑mired and revered the conduct of that wiſe, worthy Lady, the Ducheſs of St. Alban's, who, on her amiable daughter, that humbleſt, ſweeteſt of women, Lady Diana Barrington, [ccclxiii] firſt Lady of the very amiable Biſhop Barrington, com⯑pleting her twentieth year, thus addreſſed her, ‘"My dear Lady Dy, from this day we ceaſe to be mother and daugh⯑ter. We commence beloved friends. When you wiſh to go into public, if I am able, I ſhall be happy to at⯑tend you; if not, you have many friends who will."’ Her wiſe (very early wiſe) Grace, as the Editor has fre⯑quently heard her mother relate, and Lady Dy, ever after lived as moſt affectionate ſiſters.

One of the Magdalene Hall gentlemen, of the party who had eſcaped, being congratulated by the Principal, ſome of them ſaid, ‘"We meant to have gone yeſterday, but Berke⯑ley would not be of the party, becauſe it was Sunday,"’ meaning to divert the Principal at Mr. Berkeley's expence. That worthy gentleman replied, ‘"I honour Mr. Berkeley exceedingly for it. I wiſh all paid the ſame reverence to the Lord's Day; it would be well for them; and they will wiſh it ſome time hence."’

The dear excellent Biſhop of Norwich uſed to ſay to Dr. Berkeley, ‘"We all ſay, that Mr. Berkeley is Princi⯑pal of Magdalene Hall; and a very good Principal he is. Dr. Lambe's own good ſenſe makes him admire Mr. Berkeley's good judgement and propriety, ſo much, that we all tell him he may do whatever he pleaſes."’ Mr. Berkeley certainly uſed this delegated power moſt reſpect⯑fully [ccclxiv] to his excellent governor, and wiſely, at leaſt, in one inſtance. At the time of his entering, every Gentleman-Commoner's dinner coſt him every day three ſhillings and ſix pence. Mr. Berkeley, although generous as a prince, was a very good oeconomiſt; he enquired, and found, that at no other Hall or College any thing like that ſum was paid, he immediately ſet himſelf to rectify it, made all the ne⯑ceſſary proper enquiries, then applied to the worthy Prin⯑cipal, who felt the force of Mr. Berkeley's reaſonings, and ſummoned the Provider of theſe coſtly ſlices of beef and mutton before him, who declared, (meat not then at the frightful price it is now, on Holy Thurſday, the 5th of May, 1796, ſeven pence per pound^*,) it was quite impoſſi⯑ble to furniſh the dinners in the Hall cheaper, without ruin⯑ing himſelf. Mr. Berkeley, being preſent, ſaid, ‘"That [ccclxv] would be a cruelty, which he was ſure the gentlemen of the Hall would be exceedingly ſorry for."’ Then turning to the Principal, he told him, ‘"that, apprehending Mr. [...] (name forgotten by the Editor) might object to the reduction, he had applied to a perſon, who would be very glad to ſupply the gentlemen every day with a good dinner at one ſhilling per head."’ On hearing this, the honeſt Provider begged ſome time to conſider of it, whe⯑ther it would be poſſible for him to do it or not. Mr. Berkeley, a pretty tolerable accomptant, ſaid, ‘"The calcu⯑lation would be eaſily made;"’ and requeſted the wor⯑thy Principal, that it might not be long delayed, as, not⯑withſtanding his father's generoſity in giving him a large allowance, he knew there were ſeveral gentlemen who felt the preſſure of this heavy daily ſconce very inconvenient to them, as well as himſelf. The honeſt man returned at the time appointed, to the Principal's lodging Mr. Berkeley, by appointment being preſent; when he ſaid, ‘"That, al⯑though he ſhould loſe much by it, yet, as he had ſerved the Hall, (he might have added ſo well,) he did not care to give it up, and would accept the terms offered."’ For this ſervice every gentleman of the Hall acknowledged that they were indebted ſolely to the wiſdom, ſpirit, and acti⯑vity of Mr. Berkeley—all complained aloud; but he alone attempted to redreſs the grievance.

[ccclxvi] The good Biſhop of Norwich, then Dean of Canterbury, always coming at the two audits, towards the end of June and November, Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley uſed of courſe to enquire when their Son talked of viſiting Canterbury; to which that facetious, witty, as well as wiſe, amiable man once replied, ‘"Come hither! I don't know that he can come at all."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Not come at all! What do you mean, my dear Mr. Dean?"’

Bp. of Norwich.—‘"Why I don't know how Magdalene Hall could go on without him. The good Principal loves and admires him more, I think, than you do: he talks more of him, however; and they have a poor unhappy gentle⯑man ^* there, who is more than a little deranged at times, and nobody can do any thing at all with him, as a gentle⯑man of the Hall told me ſome time ago, but Mr. Berke⯑ley—he has a method of his own, of ſoothing and quiet⯑ing him, and perſuading him to do juſt as he wiſhes, to the no ſmall comfort of the Hall."’

[ccclxvii] This accompliſhed gentleman, of an ancient family, had very nearly run through a large fortune in diſſipation, and, alas! vice. He felt too pungently his then ſituation; and, contraſting it with what it might, but for his own fault, have been, and the having involved in miſery a very worthy lady, it frequently dethroned his reaſon.

The Editor, when liſtening to the melancholy accounts ſometimes related to her, by her compaſſionate Son, of this gentleman, has thought of what the wits of that day ſaid of the Biſhop of Peterborough's ^† Funeral Sermon on [ccclxviii] the Duke of Devonſhire, ‘"That a man of ſenſe could re⯑pent more in half an hour, than a fool could in ſeven years."’ In that ſermon the Biſhop ſays, ‘"that the ſen⯑ſations of a man of ſuperior underſtanding, on ſeeing the error of his ways, would be ſo much more pungently felt, that it is an evil and bitter thing to depart from the LORD, than one of leſs naturally ſtrong, leſs refined underſtanding could poſſibly do."’

Some of Mr. Berkeley's intimate friends uſed to ſay, ‘"He knew how to manage every perſon of every deſcrip⯑tion."’ A very intimate, beloved, and reſpected friend of Mr. Berkeley, a very brilliant genius, whoſe Elegy on the Death of Dr. Johnſon was univerſally allowed by all the great judges of poetry to be ſuperior to any publiſhed on that occaſion—this gentleman, apt ſometimes to be hipped, had been ſome time a cloſe priſoner in his cham⯑bers, declaring to all his friends that he was extremely ill, and in a very bad way. On Mr. Berkeley's arrival in town, every common friend began lamenting the unpleaſant ſitua⯑tion of Mr. [...]; Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"I ſuppoſe he is really very ill."’—‘"No; he ails nothing at all."’—‘"Oh! very well, then; I will cure him, I promiſe you, in a few minutes."’ Off ſet Mr. Berkeley, from Harcourt Buildings, to the King's Bench Walks. On entering, the uſual enquiries of health being made, a numerous liſt of ideal maladies were mentioned, Mr. Berkeley, aſſuming a very [ccclxix] ſolemn countenance, ſaid, ‘"My dear friend, I am ex⯑ceedingly grieved to find you ſo very ill. To be ſure, you have ſent for a lawyer, and made your will, as I know you do not mean your heir at law ſhould enjoy your fine eſtate."’—‘"Made my WILL! my dear Berkeley, what do you mean? Made my will! Why then, you really think me very ill."’—‘"To be ſure I do, very dangerouſly ill."’—‘"God bleſs my ſoul, I am not ill."’—‘"Let you and I go to the Opera directly."’ Up he ſprang, rang his bell, told his ſervant that he muſt dreſs that minute, for that he was going with Mr. Berke⯑ley to the Opera. Accordingly Mr. Berkeley eſcorted him thither in triumph, to the great joy, and no ſmall diverſion, of his numerous friends; for he is exceedingly amiable. The next day, in the Hall, Mr. Berkeley was complimented on his ſkill as a phyſician. Another very ludicrous anecdote of Mr. Berkeley's extricating the ſame friend from a diſa⯑greeable ſituation, ſome time after this, might be related. It is certain, that Mr. Berkeley, after he grew up a man, never undertook the management of any difficult affair, that he did not accompliſh it to the ſatisfaction of all the parties concerned. Not long after Mr. Monck Berkeley's arrival at St. Andrew's, he went one afternoon to the ſhop of the (to St. Andrew's ſtudents) well-known Mungo Dick. To his no ſmall ſurprize, it was ſhut up. He knocked re⯑peatedly; at length a neighbour appeared; and Mr. Berke⯑ley [ccclxx] enquired, whether Mungo was broke and run-away.—‘"No Sir, he has locked himſelf in, he is bating his gewd weef."’—‘"A villian, how dare he lock the door?"’—‘"He muſt, Sir, or the neighbours would ſee it^*"’—‘"To be ſure they would, and prevent it, a raſcal to beat a woman."’—‘"Aye, Sir, ſo men always lock their doors, that nobody may ever ſay they have ſeen them do it."’ Mr. Berkeley called aloud, and vowed vengeance if he did not leave off beating her. Mr. Berkeley went the next day, and gave him ſuch a lecture, as prevented his chaſtizing her again during Mr. Berkeley's ſéjour at St. Andrew's. On the Edi⯑tor's aſking her Son, if he thought he would mind what ſuch a youth as he could ſay? Mr. Berkeley replied, very [ccclxxi] ſeriouſly, ‘"I hope he will, for I made him heartily aſhamed of himſelf."’

At the age of nineteen, Mr. Berkeley had the honour of being elected a correſponding member of the Society of Antiquaries in Edinburgh, in conſequence of a very accu⯑rate, ſenſible account, tranſmitted to that Society, of a cu⯑rious quarry of marble, diſcovered ſome years ago in the heart of the Highlands. It had ſome curious particularities, but of what nature they were the Editor does not recol⯑lect: probably they were not underſtood by her, although ſo excellently inveſtigated and deſcribed by her Son. She, however, means to preſent that Society with a valuable antique in her Son's collection.

[ccclxxii] Mr. Berkeley was a member of the Royal Archers; and during the war in 1783 a number of Scotch gentlemen of rank and faſhion formed themſelves into a corps. The Editor thinks they were ſtyled The Royal Edinburgh Volunteers. Mr. Berkeley accepted a commiſſion. They were ſum⯑moned once, if not more, to aſſiſt in quelling a riot, the mob being employed in demoliſhing ſome mills, when flour was little more than half its preſent price. This oc⯑caſioned a gentleman's aſking Mr. Berkeley if he had thoughts of going into the army; on which he replied, ‘"No, Sir; I am much indebted to the wiſdom of my Fa⯑ther, who would not ſuffer me to enter on a military or naval life, when I was a boy leaving Eton. There is but one thing now that can ever make a military man of me, his Majeſty's erecting his ſtandard, when I ſhould feel it my bounden duty to repair to repair to it."’

Mr. Berkeley, in the year 1789, viſited the, accidentally, native country ^* of his renowned grandfather. The atten⯑tions Mr. Berkeley received in that kingdom from all ranks [ccclxxiii] and degrees muſt have been exceedingly flattering to any man leſs humble than Mr. Berkeley, who, in a letter to his Mother, ſpeaks thus, ‘"I am indebted to my grandfather for this honour^*. I have little merit of my own; but I am the grandſon of Biſhop [...]erkeley, the repreſentative of Archbiſhop Uſher^†. I hope I feel as I ought the honour conferred upon me, and truſt, that although I cannot equal, I ſhall never diſgrace, my famous anceſ⯑tors."’

That Mr. Berkeley ſhould meet with much attention in the hoſpitable polite kingdom of Ireland, celebrated, as well as her ſiſter kingdom, for pleaſing conduct to ſtrangers, is not to be much wondered at, his Father having the ho⯑nour to be related to many of the nobleſſe of Ireland. His [ccclxxiv] gratitude was great for the throughly amiable polite atten⯑tions of the excellent Marquis and Marchioneſs of Water⯑ford. His Parents felt it as it merited. The ſurvivor ſtill feels it, as ſhe does the very worthy Lord John Beresford's amiability, for ſo condeſcendingly intereſting himſelf in her intricate affairs in Ireland. She muſt ever retain the moſt grateful ſenſe of the exquiſitely polite condeſcenſion of the excellent Lady Iſabella Monck, the highly reſpected mother of the Marchioneſs, ever ſince ſhe had the honour of being connected with her Ladyſhip by her union with Dr. Berkeley. That excellent lady once taking leave of the Editor, on her quitting England, ſpoke as follows: ‘"As I fear, Madam, that there is little chance of my ever having it in my power to pay you the reſpect that I wiſh to do in Ireland, and that your very great attention to all Dr. Berkeley's relations I am ſure demands; I beg that, if ever you have any relation or friend that viſits Dublin, you will be pleaſed to let me know, that I may at leaſt have the pleaſure of paying them the attentions, that I ſhould be happy to pay you there."’

The Editor truſts that ſhe felt this amiable conduct as it merited. She availed herſelf of this goodneſs but once (it is not to be ſuppoſed that ſhe would introduce every country gentleman's daughter of her acquaintance, who, being ſmitten with a red coat, followed the camp to Ire⯑land) when the ſenſible, elegant Miſs D'Oyley, daughter [ccclxxv] of the late Sir Thomas D'Oyley, married Dr. Newcombe, then Biſhop of Oſſory: the Editor wrote to her Ladyſhip, requeſting permiſſion to introduce Mrs. Newcombe, who, added to her great perſonal merits, was deſcended from one of the moſt antient families in England. On Mrs. Newcombe's arrival in Dublin, to the amazement of all the ton world of Dublin, her Ladyſhip viſiting very few perſons but of her own family and connections, and making no new acquaintances at all of any rank ſhe immediately ho⯑noured Mrs. Newcombe with a viſit^*.

The Editor had the pleaſure of adding much ^† to the happineſs of that excellent incomparable woman, the late Lady D'Oyley, whoſe whole life, from the age of ſeven⯑teen, when ſhe married the worthy Sir Thomas D'Oyley, was one continued uninterrupted journey in the path of duty^‡. She lived, alas! to loſe the only child ſhe ever had.

[ccclxxvi] The Editor, viſiting her not long before her death, found her, as ever, reſigned and cheerful, much wiſhing Mrs. Berkeley to ſee, what ſhe wiſhed, a ſtrong reſemblance between her fine little grand-daughter, about ſeven years old, and her departed mother. There certainly was a re⯑ſemblance. Miſs Newcombe was handſomer than her ele⯑gant mother. This young lady is lately married in Ire⯑land, and, it is ſaid, means to prove her claim to what the Editor has always heard from her youth, that her mother, of courſe herſelf, had an undoubted right to, after the death of her two uncles, Sir John and Sir William, both dead childleſs—the barony of Hook Norton in Oxfordſhire; as, the late Lord Dacre uſed to ſay, a clergyman on a ſmall living in the vale of Berkſhire, whoſe name the Editor does not recollect, had to that of Berners. How much wiſer are the Scots, in many inſtances, than the Engliſh; every al⯑manac has the liſt of dormant titles, with this wiſe addi⯑tion, ‘"The repreſentative of this family is [...] [...]."’ Surely this is very wiſe; for an ancient hereditary title is certainly no unpleaſant thing for any family to poſſeſs, however Nabobs, Slave-merchants, and upſtarts, may AFFECT to deride it in words, for in actions they do not, being very fond of uniting their plebeian blood with noble. The Editor will not ſay, as Sir [...] [...] ſaid on a match made ſome time ago, ‘"Oh! he has, I find, taken a Rag of Quality."’

[ccclxxvii] The excellent Lady D'Oyley took great pains to make a very happy match for her eldeſt brother, a very worthy gentleman of large fortune in the Weſt of England, with a very ſenſible, moſt highly accompliſhed young Lady, with⯑out any fortune. This noble, diſintereſted Lady lived to ſee the lovely, the only offspring of that marriage, the firſt lady of [...] Creſſwell, Eſquire, Member of Parliament for Cirenceſter, left an orphan by the death of both parents before ſhe was two years old, a beloved friend of the Edi⯑tor, grow up; adorned with every thing that could render an uncommonly fine, wonderfully ſtrong underſtanding cul⯑tivated to the height by her maternal aunt, her more than mother—ſhe had in fact been a more than mother to her half-ſiſter, the young lady's mother, ten years younger than herſelf—the excellent Mrs. Woodford; who died in April 1795, in very advanced age, at the ſeat of her other niece, the amiable worthy Lady Guiſe, at Highnam Court, in Glouceſterſhire, full of days and full of piety. The Editor laments that it is not in the power of her feeble pen to do juſtice to the very rare merits of this wonderfully wiſe accompliſhed, excellent friend, nor to her own great gra⯑titude to her, and to God, for having put it into the heart of this excellent lady to attach herſelf to the Editor (fifteen years younger than herſelf) when a girl of ten years old. She had, however, then ſenſe enough to liſten to the wiſe advice of this extraordinary lady, as to an oracle of wiſdom and prudence, and continued to do ſo, until ſhe [ccclxxviii] bade her adieu for the laſt time, in 1792, at Highnam Court; truſting to meet again, when the Editor hopes to be as wiſe as her ever reſpected beloved friend. Her powers, with regard to the education of young women, were ſo highly eſteemed by the Editor, that ſhe had conjured Dr. Berke⯑ley to promiſe her, that, ſhould ſhe die leaving a young daughter, her highly reſpected friend, Mrs. Woodford might have the direction of her education, rather than her own excellent Siſter, whoſe exquiſite compaſſion for a mo⯑therleſs child would have cauſed her to humour ſuch an one in every thing ſhe wiſhed, and have ſo enſured a mi⯑ſerable life, a melancholy death for her^*.

[ccclxxix] Laſt year, a very ſhort time before the death of this revered friend, the Editor had the real pleaſure to become acquainted, under the throughly hoſpitable roof of her very excellent, amiable, kind, old friends, the very learned, ſenſible Recorder of Canterbury and his ſenſible worthy Lady, with the amiable, very highly cultivated, and accompliſhed Miſs G [...]l [...]d, neice of Mrs. Robinſon, to whom the Editor has been much indebted, for introducing her to the knowledge of a very worthy man, who has been of great ſervice to her in ſome of her difficult, unpleaſant buſineſes. This young lady one day aſked Mrs. Berkeley, ‘"if ſhe was not acquainted with Mrs. Woodford?"’ The Editor replied, that ‘"ſhe had that felicity very early in life, and eſteemed it one of the numberleſs gracious vouchſafements of PRO⯑VIDENCE, having owed to that dear friend's wiſe, pious advice, that, together with many other things, ſhe had frequently eſcaped, the moſt unpleaſing of all reproach, [ccclxxx] ſelf-reproach, by having, early in life, left entirely to the All-wiſe Diſpoſer of events every concern of real impor⯑tance, never to pray or wiſh anxiouſly that events might turn out to one's own wiſh."’ This excellent lady would fre⯑quently ſay, ‘"Behold me a monument of the folly of anxi⯑ouſly wiſhing, praying, for any thing, of preſuming to carve for ourſelves. I beſought God, at different times, when young, to vouchſafe to grant me three requeſts."’ All were granted—and they have every one brought on me ſuch diſtreſs, as I hope all my young friends, taking warning by me, may eſcape^*.

Miſs G [...]l [...]d, by ſome accidental meeting, had the happineſs, ſuch ſhe profeſſed to eſteem it, to become ac⯑quainted with Mrs. Woodford, late in her journey towards the realms of bliſs. Her wonderful powers of mind ap⯑peared as ſtrong as ever, the laſt time the Editor ſaw her; but her earthly tabernacle was debilitated moſt lamentably in⯑deed. For the preſent, adieu, thou beloved, thou revered, thou excellent Friend. May at leaſt one bright jewel be [ccclxxxi] added to thy crown of glory, for the benefits received from thee by thy throughly grateful, affectionate friend, &c. ELIZA BERKELEY.

On Dean Swift's introducing Mr. (afterwards Bp.) Berkeley to the then Earl of Berkeley, it was in this ſingular way: ‘"My Lord, here is a fine young gentleman of your family. I can aſſure your Lordſhip, it is a much greater honour to you to be related to him, than it is to him to be related to you."’ The Earl of Berkeley was then Lord High Admiral of England, the laſt nobleman who had that ho⯑nour, which ſome of his deſcendants pleaded as the cauſe of their great pride—ſome of the uncommonly ſenſible grandſons of the Honourable Colonel Berkeley. A perſon, whoſe name was not originally Berkeley, one day talking to one of the moſt amiable of thoſe brothers, ſaid, ‘"My dear C [...], what is the cauſe that you BERKELEYS are ſo diabolically proud? Is it becauſe, for its great antiquity, no noble family in England has had quite ſo many h [...]ts and ſ [...]ls in it?"’—‘"No, my dear Madam, no; it is becauſe we are ſo horridly poor. We are afraid of being trampled upon."’—‘"Never fear that, my dear C [...]; no man of ſo ancient, ſo noble a family as yours has cauſe for ſuch apprehenſion from perſons of ſenſe, if it is not his own fault."’ St. Paul, ſpeaking by the Holy Spirit to Timothy, ſays, ‘"Let no man deſpiſe thee."’ It is therefore abſolutely in our own power to prevent our being [ccclxxxii] deſpiſed. It is one thing to diſlike to hate, and another to deſpiſe. The inſpired Writer therefore does not ſay, ‘"let no man hate thee, or perſecute;"’ but ‘"let no man deſpiſe thee,"’ is a command given from an aged to a young Biſhop. There are countries where, perhaps, the younger Prelates might ſo admoniſh the elders to their profit. To the admoniſher of Mr. C. Berkeley, when ſaying, that no perſons of ſenſe would deſpiſe him, &c. might, had he known it, have retorted the famous Dr. Rock's anſwer to Sir Edward Holſe, Phyſician to his late Majeſty, who, driving one day down the Strand, was ſtopped by the mob, liſtening to the oratory of Dr. Rock in his gaudy equipage. Seeing Sir Edward Hulſe look out at his chariot window, he inſtantly took a quantity of boxes and vials, gave them to one of his belaced lacqueys, ſaying, ‘"Give my compli⯑ments to Sir Edward; tell him, theſe are all I have with me, but I will ſend him ten dozen more to-morrow."’ Sir Edward, aſtoniſhed at the meſſage, and effrontery of the man, actually took them into his chariot; on which the mob, with one conſent, all cried out, ‘"See, ſee, all the Doctors, even the King's, buy their medicines of him."’ In their youth, they had ſomewhere been fellow ſtudents; Rock, not ſucceeding in a regular way, metamorphoſed himſelf into a Quack. In the afternoon he waited on Sir Edward, to beg his pardon for having played him ſuch a trick: to which Sir Edward replied, ‘"My old friend, how can a man of your underſtanding condeſcend to harangue [ccclxxxiii] the populace with ſuch nonſenſe as you talked to-day. Why, none but fools liſten to you."’—‘"Ah! my good friend, that is the very thing. Do you give me the FOOLS for my patients, and you ſhall have my free leave to keep the people of SENSE for your own."’ This anecdote of theſe two different Doctors was related to the Editor by a medical friend of great eminence, who had often heard Sir Edward Hulſe relate it to divert his friends, adding, ‘"I never felt ſo like a fool in my life, as when I received the bottles and boxes from Rock."’

Mr. Berkeley felt himſelf much indebted for numberleſs polite amiable attentions from Lord Durraghmore; for which he was probably indebted entirely to his own perſonal merit, and the great good ſenſe of that young Nobleman, to whom, ſhould he chance to read this, it may not per⯑haps be unpleaſant to obſerve, what Mr. Berkeley's Father once ſaid to the Editor, on her ſaying, ‘"How very lucky Berkeley is, in becoming acquainted with ſo many learned men, ſo much his ſuperiors in years and knowledge!"’—‘"Lucky; to be ſure he is lucky if you call it ſo, in having an underſtanding that muſt make him admired by thoſe who have very ſuperior underſtandings themſelves; that is the luck of it."’ They did not, perhaps, as Mr. Berkeley; who, having dined out in a large company, at his return aſked his Mother, if ſhe was acquainted with a young Ba⯑ronet, [ccclxxxiv] whom he named; ſhe replied, ‘"Yes, that ſhe had known his mother very well."’

Mr. B.—‘"I am reſolved to become acquainted with him."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Why?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Becauſe two of the moſt empty fox-hunting coxcombs I ever met with have been laughing at, and abuſing him to the company all the afternoon; ſo I con⯑clude he is a man of ſenſe and worth."’

Mr. Berkeley alſo felt himſelf much obliged, as the Edi⯑tor does, by the very polite friendly attentions of his Fa⯑ther's Honourable relation Sackville Hamilton, Eſquire, of Dublin Caſtle. He felt himſelf flattered by the attentions of the learned Reverend William Hamilton, B.D. who preſented to him his very curious entertaining work, printed during Mr. Berkeley's reſidence in Ireland. In his return from Ireland, by the way of Scotland, he made ſome little ſtay with his amiable old intimate friend, Sir William Morres, at his ſeat in the county of [...] (name forgot⯑ten). He could not contrive to reach the houſe of his learned friend, Mr. Taylor of Noan. Several tranſlations from the Greek Poets of this gentleman's were publiſhed when he was about nineteen.

[ccclxxxv] In a letter to his Father, whilſt in Ireland, he ſays, ‘"My Grandfather and Swift are ſtill remembered with gra⯑titude in this kingdom; by ſome their memory is ve⯑nerated as they merited."’

Mr. Berkeley having been always told by his Father, that Dean Swift was the introducer of his Grandfather when he came young into England, to the learned and the great, occaſioned his, from a boy, being a great admirer of that wonderful man, and his ſo zealouſly labouring to vindicate his fame in the Preface to his Literary Relics from ſome horridly falſe aſperſions, and palliating his ſad conduct to Stella and Vaneſſa^*. Mr. Berkeley was not in England [ccclxxxvi] when that book was publiſhed; but a copy, by his order to his bookſeller, was ſent to every member of his family. On his arrival in England, he immediately paid his duty at his Father's; and, after dinner one day, ſaid to his Mother, that he hoped ſhe had received the Literary Re⯑lics, which he had ordered to be ſent to her before they were publiſhed.

She replied, ‘"that ſhe was much obliged by his attention."’

Mr. B.—‘"Have you redde them, my dear Madam?"’

Mrs. B.—‘"To be ſure I have, my dear Child."’

Mr. B.—‘"Well, and what do you think of my account of Swift?"’

Mrs. Berkeley, with what her Son uſed to term ‘"one of my Mother's wicked looks,"’ replied, ‘"My dear Son, it has determined me, if ever I ſhould have a deſperately bad cauſe to plead, to retain you for my Prime Counſel."’

[ccclxxxvii] To which Mr. Berkeley, in a ſweet melancholy voice, replied, ‘"Ah, my dear Mother, don't ſay ſo! I have not defended his wrong conduct: I have only ſaid all that my conſcience would ſuffer me to ſay in extenuation of it. You know his kindneſs to my Grandfather in his youth, when he came firſt to England. It grieves me that you ſay that I ſhould be your Prime Counſel."’

Mr. Berkeley ſhewed his gratitude in another inſtance to Dean Swift. During his ſhort ſéjour in Dublin, he diſ⯑covered that the old ſervant, Mr. Richard Brinan, in whoſe arms Dean Swift expired, was poor as well as aged: he re⯑lieved him, and ordered his Father's agent to pay him a ſmall ſum every month, to lighten the unavoidable ſuffer⯑ings of old age; which needs not the aid of POVERTY, to render it unpleaſant. Dr. Berkeley continued this annuity, as does the Editor; at leaſt, ſhe truſts, that the poor man receives it, as ſhe ſees it conſtantly in her accounts; ſhe hopes, for his ſake, it is not as difficult to get a ſmall ſum paid in Ireland, as it is to get any ſum out of it.

It has, perhaps, been before mentioned, that Mr. Berke⯑ley reſembled his unworthy Mother in never forgetting a favour received, and his lovely ſelf in never remembering an injury done to himſelf. Any done to his Father he would not pardon, as too plainly appeared in his "Siege of Rhodes," [ccclxxxviii] which the Editor never ſaw until it was printed, or ſhe had certainly made it a point with her obedient Son; as in another inſtance, where only themſelves were concerned, not many months before his death, ſaying, ‘"Here I ſtand, my dear Madam, ready to obey whatever you ſhall be pleaſed to command."’ The [...] of [...] had certainly treated Dr. Berkeley like a [...]; and Mr. Berkeley ever now and then threatened him. Dr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"The man that can act as he has done, is beneath your notice; do not ſoil your paper with ſuch a [...]."’ Mrs. Berkeley begged him off, on account of his worthy family, with whom in her youth ſhe had been acquainted. Mr. Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"No man ſhall maltreat my Father whilſt I can hold a pen, any more than aſperſe my Mother's fame whilſt I wear a ſword."’ Mr. Berkeley uſed laughingly to tell a very intimate friend of his, ‘"You are ſo apt to boaſt of being will with the ladies of all ages and all deſcriptions, that I am ſure the only thing that prevents your hinting that my Mother is partial to you is, that you know I would run you through the body immediately."’ Had Mr. Berkeley lived to read the grateful mention of his Father in the curious life of Biſhop Horne, he had certainly reſented it as it merits to be reſented. Dr. Berkeley was a too generous friend to numbers, whoſe preſent pride and covetouſneſs has quite obliterated from their minds the poverty from which the amiable generoſity of Dr. Berkeley long ſince reſcued them. [ccclxxxix] HE is gone to receive his reward: THEY muſt in due time follow to receive theirs.

It has been mentioned, that Mr. Berkeley, in his firſt nove, "The Generous Ruſtic," has ſhewn his love and gra⯑titude to the French friends of his early youth. In his ſe⯑cond, "The Spaniſh Memoirs," many of the characters are the real ones of Engliſh and Scotch friends and acquaint⯑ance. In that of Father Alberto, the reader is made ac⯑quainted with the very ſenſible, highly accompliſhed, won⯑derfully entertaining, polite, pious, Biſhop Geddes, who had ſpent many years as a Biſhop in New Spain, and has often delighted the Editor, when viſiting at Dr. Berkeley's, with accounts of the wonderfully affectionate, reſpectful attachment the amiable Peruvians ſtill retain for their Inca and his royal progeny, ſupplying him with fiſh, veniſon, game, &c.; and the ſtratagems the Spaniards were obliged to employ to convey the then Inca from New to Old Spain, where he is a grandee. His two ſons hold conſiderable rank in the King of Spain's guards; they are fine young men, although one draws a ſigh over their reverſed fortune. They are, perhaps, happier to guard, than to be guarded. The Editor has often liſtened with delight to accounts of conver⯑ſations related to have paſſed between the Inca and himſelf tête à tête in old Spain, al hough the Inca is not a man of very ſhining abilities, perhaps, for politic reaſons, very little [cccxc] cultivated. He was not dead to what he was, nor to what he ought to have been.

This excellently wiſe, mild Prelate, by the great wiſdom of the then Pontiff, replaced the flaming Popiſh Biſhop, who preſided over the Roman Catholics of Edinburgh, when the zeal of John Knox's diſciples burned down the chapel, to the great diſtreſs of the amiable liberal Dr. Robertſon, the worthy witty Dr. Webſter, father of the excellent Colonel Webſter, the agreeable Dr. Carlyle, and many other worthy Scottiſh miniſters of Edinburgh. On that occaſion the zealots of the party exhibited a caricature print, of which the Editor has a copy, of Dr. Johnſon's beloved "Willy Robertſon," with the triple crown on his head, a label, &c. &c. May that ſenſible, agreeable head be now more ſuitably crowned!

Mr. Berkeley's ſuperiority of underſtanding led him to feel great gratitude for Biſhop Goddes's devoting ſo much of his time to Mr. Berkeley when in Edinburgh in vacation time. He felt that it was condeſcenſion in a very learned man of between fifty and ſixty, to ſay to a youth of nineteen, ‘"Whenever you pleaſe, Sir, viſit me at all times; I ſhall be moſt happy to ſee you, to give you any information you may wiſh that I am capable of affording."’ The Edi⯑tor is aware, that perſons may ſay, ‘"Oh! that was to [cccxci] make a Papiſt of him^*."’ Biſhop Geddes very ſoon diſ⯑covered, before he had ever ſeen Mr. Berkeley, only an anonymous piece of his, without the leaſt clue to find out the Writer—‘"This is written by a very uncommon genius indeed, be he whom he may."’—The Duke D'Arundina, Mr. Berkeley told the Editor, was the late Earl of [...]; whom Mr. Berkeley never forgave for turning his own un⯑fortunate nephew, his brother's ſon, from his door. The amiable Miſs [...], daughter of Lord [...], told Mr. Monck Berkeley, that the poor unfortunate young gentle⯑man's father was at Lord [...]'s, when his only ſon was chaſed from the door. The Editor hopes that the young Lady had been miſinformed, as he was an highly reſpected friend of Dr. Berkeley and the Editor. Alas! alas! that parents would conſider, in their anger againſt their perhaps ill-educated offspring, how will this action appear to me when I come to lie on my death-bed. God himſelf ſays, ‘"Oh! that they were wiſe, that they would conſider their latter end."’—But moſt, ſo far from conſidering it, baniſh it from their mind, leſt it ſhould make them melancholy. This ill-fated young gentleman reached a wretched ale-houſe [cccxcii] in Northumberland, and there ended his miſerable mortal pilgrimage. There is a day coming ere long, when the Edi⯑tor thinks ſhe would, of the two, rather chooſe to be the poor, very weak, ſhatter-brained nephew, than the ſenſible, ſolemn, pompous uncle, who is well characterized in the perſon of the Spaniſh Don (Duke). Oh! that parents and near relatives, whom God has bleſſed with underſtanding, had ſome compaſſion on thoſe to whom he has not been ſo gracious, and conſider that there are very many who want guardians through life; and the father and mother of a ſhatter-brained man, or ſimple daughter, ſhould look out for a proper guardian in a wiſe huſband or wife, like the late Mrs. [...] of [...] [...], who ſoon after the death of her excellent huſband, ſaid to her very un⯑commonly ſenſible daughter, a very old friend of the Edi⯑tor, ‘"We muſt now caſt our thoughts about for ſome very ſenſible young lady of ſmall fortune, who will take your brother; or elſe, before we have left [...] [...] ſix weeks, either the cook or the dairy maid, whichever has moſt cunning, will marry him."’ The plan was pur⯑ſued. He lived ſome years a very happy reſpectable life, with one of the ſenſible daughters of the worthy Sir [...] [...], Bart. His ſon does not ſquander the ſix thouſand pounds per annum, which the wiſdom of his grandmother (eſteemed a ſtingy woman, becauſe ſhe paid her bills regularly,) reſcued from Molly Dairy, and entruſted to the wiſe management of Miſs [...] [...].

[cccxciii] The unfortunate young man, driven from the door, was once very deſirous to have married the daughter of a clergy⯑man, a Dignitary of the Church of [...], well educated, but no great fortune. The joy of his mother on its being prevented was ſo great, as to occaſion Dr. Berkeley's calling her FOOL, and ſaying ſhe would live to repent it. It is hoped ſhe did, for ſhe muſt meet her injured ſon at the laſt great day.

Mention has been made before, of Mr. Berkeley's being ſent, when he was little more than ſix years old, to town, to get a tooth inſpected by that very honeſt dentiſt, the late Mr. Hemmet, who happened to be out of town. The amiable friend who took the charge of him ſaid, ‘"Well, we will go to Mr. Beardmore, or ſome other emi⯑nent man."’ To which Mr. Berkeley replied, ‘"No, Sir; if you pleaſe, I will go to no other; for I heard my Mamma tell you, that Hemmet was the beſt; and I am ſure SHE knows; and I will go to him."’ This occa⯑ſioned his being detained a few days longer in town; and his wiſe kind hoſt, fearing that a child, who lived all day in the open air, might ſuffer in town, ſent him every day to walk in the Park with his own worthy careful valet de chambre. This man, happening to be intimate with the gentleman of the late excellent Lord Berkeley of Stratton, one day, in returning from the Park, called in Berkeley Square with Mr. Berkeley in his hand, who, of courſe, [cccxciv] went into the ſteward's or houſekeeper's room, where his ſweetly engaging manners ſoon ſo won the hearts of all preſent, that they aſked his kind guardian permiſſion to lead him up, to ſhew him to Lord Berkeley and the excel⯑lent Mrs. Anne Egerton. He was introduced as the little grandſon of the great Biſhop Berkeley. His noble relation was charmed with the great good ſenſe and propriety of the little man; and, after he had been there a ſhort time, his ſenſible guardian telling him it was time to go home, he roſe, made a very graceful bow^* to the Lady, and then [cccxcv] to my Lord, who, untying his purſe, was preſenting him with five guineas, to buy him a fine horſe, ſaddle, &c. at the toy-ſhop; Mr. Berkeley having told him, that he had a live horſe at Cookham. His worthy guardian ſtepped up, ſaying, ‘"I muſt beg your Lordſhip to excuſe Maſter Berkeley. He muſt not take it. His Mamma never ſuffers him to take a guinea, or a ſix-pence, from my Maſter, when ſtaying there for months, not even from his Grandmother or his Aunt, telling him how ſhamefully mean it is to accept money from any one but his own Parents, when they are at hand."’ This injunction was withdrawn when Mr. Berkeley went to Eton, near an hun⯑dred miles from his Father's houſe; that then, if any old friend of his family called, and tipped him a guinea or two, he might accept it; as his Father and Mother had often tipped the ſons of their friends. He then declined it, telling [cccxcvi] his Mother, ‘"I don't like it ſomehow, not having been uſed to it; and John Hayes (his amiable relation) is a good-natured fellow, and will always lend me a guinea whenever I aſk him, till I ſee my Father or John."’ A Gentleman once expreſſed his aſtoniſhment to Dr. Berkeley, that, calling at Eton, to ſee Mr. Berkeley, he could not perſuade him to accept money.

Mrs. Berkeley, having always a dread of her children's being led to practiſe any meanneſs, of any kind, never ſuf⯑fered either of them to receive any ſum, ſmall or great, from any one but Dr. Berkeley or herſelf: from either Pa⯑rent they were at full liberty to receive as much as ever their eloquence could extract. The Editor, from early youth, al⯑ways declared, ‘"However well ſhe might like a ſmart cap, or elegant gown, that ſhe would much rather wear an old gown, and a ruſty cloak, as ſhe does at preſent, than not pay the butcher, baker, &c. every Monday morn⯑ing."’ The doing that, in theſe bleſſed times of plenty, is hardly ſufficient; and ſuch is the ſhameful ſelfiſh covetouſ⯑neſs of moſt Engliſh traders in that claſs, that they make thoſe pay to the full as much for their commodities, who pay every ſeventh day, as thoſe who do or do not pay after ſeven years credit. In Scotland, the traders, al⯑though in general the rudeſt in the world, excepting the Dutch; if you pay ready money, twenty pounds or thirty pence, they always throw you back a conſiderable diſcount, [cccxcvii] as did always the late Mr. Goodchild, the great linen-dra⯑per at Charing Croſs. The Editor, when buying, at St. Andrews, even a common chequered apron, for ‘"a pure auld gewd weef,"’ value half a crown, has repeatedly had three halfpenny worth of white ſilk, nicely folded in paper, pre⯑ſented to her by the very worthy, really reſpectable Dean of Guild Kaye, the firſt ſhop in St. Andrews, ſaying, ‘"Be pleaſed, Madam, to take your diſcount; I will not bur⯑den you with halfpence."’ He had been long enough in England to learn the civility of our traders, not long enough to learn their cunning, of making thoſe who do pay, pay for thoſe who do not. Whilſt Dr. Berkeley's family was at St. Andrews, they were told by ſeveral of their neigh⯑bours, that a certain Earl, who has a manſion near Perth, one day walked in, and purchaſed half a guinea's worth of tea and ſugar, laid down the money on the counter, which the grocer took, and put into the till. The Earl aſked, ‘"Where is my diſcount?"’—‘" Oh! my Lord, I thought your Lordſhip had lived ſo much in England that you would not take it."’—‘"NOT TAKE IT! I have not lived long enough in England to learn their FOOLISH cuſtoms."’ This nobleman is remarkable for a ſtrong underſtanding; was educated at Weſtminſter and Chriſt Church College, Oxford; and, being a moſt able ſpeaker in the Houſe, would do the honeſt part of Engliſh gentry and traders an eſſential ſervice, if he could introduce this wiſe Scottiſh cuſtom South of the Tweed. The Editor has one Scottiſh friend, who reſides [cccxcviii] much in England, who conſtantly, when he purchaſes any thing, puts the caſh or notes in a paper, writes on it what it is to pay, and conſtantly keeps it in his deſk twelve months, becauſe the Engliſh traders will not allow him diſcount, ſaying, ‘"that they are a ſet of raſcals for not doing it."’

After Mr. Berkeley grew up, ſome one, ſpeaking highly, and juſtly, as he deſerved, of Lord Berkeley of Stratton, Mr. Monck Berkeley ſaid, ‘"I am ſure he was a good-na⯑tured man; he would once have made me the happieſt of mortals, but for my Mother."’—‘"How ſo?"’ Mr. Berke⯑ley then mentioned what has been related above.

On which Mrs. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"Bleſs me, my dear child, do you remember that?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Remember it, my dear Madam; why, I never felt ſuch happineſs before, nor ever expect it again on earth, as the half minute that the five guineas were chinking in my paw, until Mr. [...] (the name of Mr. Johnſon's valet forgotten) told me that I muſt give them back to my Lord, for that you never ſuffered me, &c."’ as before mentioned. ‘"I had, in idea, purchaſed half the globe with thoſe five guineas. Lord Berkeley ſaid, I was the grandſon of a great good man^*; but that de⯑lighted [cccxcix] me not, like the guineas chinking in my hand."’

Mr. Berkeley, as well as his parents, had a moſt affec⯑tionate regard for his eminently worthy, agreeable, re⯑ſpectable, and it may, with the ſtricteſt truth, be aſſerted, [cccc] univerſally reſpected relation, Major James Berkeley, one of the grandſons of the Honourable Colonel Berkeley; whom, on his dreary journey from Dover to Cheltenham, he was ſadly diſappointed at not finding at Rocheſter, he being then in barracks at Chatham, now, alas! abroad, in a ſituation of great danger. May God, in mercy, ſpare that beſt of ſons and brothers to his worthy mother, elegant ſiſter, and to his idolizing, beautiful, accompliſhed lady! [cccci] May their ſon, if he lives to grow up, be, if an officer, as wiſe and worthy as his father, and as valiant as his mo⯑ther's illuſtrious anceſtor, ‘"valiant John Talbot ^*."’ Pro⯑ceeding on the road between Rocheſter and Dartford, a poſt-chaiſe drove moſt furiouſly by the coach. Mr. Berke⯑ley's quick eye ſaw it, and ſaid to Mrs. Frinſham, ‘"There goes dear James and his lovely lady; I wiſh to ſpeak to him."’ His ſervant, on horſeback, endeavoured to over⯑take and ſtop them; but in vain, for they out-ſtripped the wind. He was affected, as he wiſhed exceedingly to bid a laſt adieu to his ſincerely beloved, reſpected kinſman.

Major Berkeley has a younger brother, a very uncommonly ſenſible man; in mind, not perſon, a genuine Berkeley. On the famous 27th of July every man between himſelf and the Earldom of Berkeley were engaged in actual ſervice. The Honourable George Berkeley, only brother of Lord Berkeley; Captain Velters Cornwall Berkeley, of the Navy; Major Lionel Berkeley; and Major James, above named. Should Mr. George Berkeley marry a Lady with a mind like his own, their offspring may diſcover what is tranſacting in the ſtars diſcovered by Dr. Her⯑ſchel. [ccccii] Mr. George Berkeley has, as the Editor uſed to tell Dr. Berkeley and her Son—they had eyes that could ſee an inſect a mile off. A learned friend of the Editor, not ſhort-ſighted, uſed to ſay of his Lady, ‘"She can ſee a crow upon a church-ſteeple when I cannot ſee the ſteeple."’ It muſt, ſurely, be very pleaſant to be bleſſed with ſuch eyes. The Editor was always anxious to find out, when infants, whether her children had their dear Father's fine eyes, or their mother's. Both could, like Mr. George Berkeley and their Father, ſee the mountains in the moon.

This very ſenſible young Divine once, when ſtaying at Dr. Berkeley's; the Editor, ſeeing him very careleſs of his health, ſaid to him, ‘"If you don't take more care of your⯑ſelf, Berkeley will come to the title at laſt."’ He briſkly replied, ‘"Surely, I think, there are enough of us to keep your ſon from it."’ The Editor well remembers to have frequently heard her very ſenſible, agreeable, intimate friend, Mrs. Jones, ſiſter to the preſent highly worthy, excel⯑lent Marquis of Wincheſter, ſay, that ‘"When he was a little boy of five or ſix years old, and intimate friend of his mother, uſed to ſay, ſtroking his head, 'Aye, my dear George, this little white head of thine will one day wear a coronet: I am old, and ſhall not live to ſee it; but, I promiſe thee, thou wilt one day be Marquis of Wincheſter."’ The preſent HONOUR to that very ancient title was then the ſeventh from it. The manner in which his Lady's wiſe [cccciii] father recommended it to her, with her vaſt fortune, to marry Mr. George Pawlett, then a younger brother, does him more honour than even his very ancient title promiſed to him by the old lady. In this inſtance it can hardly be urged that preſcience is unpleaſant; for a coronet, if honourably obtained, is no unpleaſant prediction. Yet, how merciful is God! in hiding from his creatures the FUTURE, unleſs by fore⯑ſeeing we could prevent. How gracious was God, in the year 1760, and ſeveral ſubſequent years, in concealing from the unworthy writer of theſe pages, ſhe then ſpending from the beginning of May to the end of September at Cheltenham, on account of her dear ſiſter's health, by no means in a dan⯑gerous ſtate, which muſt have prevented her enjoying balls, parties, &c.—had it been made known to her, that in the year 1792 and 1793 ſhe ſhould paſs as many months of extreme anguiſh of ſpirit, and at length loſe an only child, one of the fineſt young men in England, it would, it muſt, have totally deſtroyed her innocent mirth and gaieté de coeur enjoyed there above thirty years before.—The Honourable Mr. Finch, great uncle to the preſent Lord Aylesford, being told by a fortune-teller, that he would die by means of a grey horſe, occaſioned his living twenty-five years in miſerable anxiety; but did not prevent his being killed the twenty-ſixth by a grey horſe, in a very remarkably odd way, as ſome Weſt Kent gentlemen have related it to the Editor.

[cccciv] Mrs. Berkeley takes this opportunity of returning her grateful acknowledgements to many amiable acquaintances at Cheltenham, at the time of Dr. Berkeley's long con⯑finement, after the extreme danger of his illneſs be⯑fore mentioned was over; who uſed obligingly to give up the rooms, and afford him the pleaſure of their pleaſing ſociety; the very agreeable Miſs Nevilles; the worthy Mrs. André, mother of the amiable unfortunate Major André, and the delightfully ſenſible, highly cul⯑tivated Miſs Andrés; the wonderfully well-informed, pious Mrs. Wells of Cheltenham; the Editor's old friend, the very amiable, worthy Mr. De la Bere; the worthy Mr. Llewelwyn; Mr. Fitzgerald, the ſenſible, agreeable ſon of an old friend of Dr. Berkeley's; and his very learned brother⯑in-law's old friend Mrs. Boſwell, ſiſter of Lord Bellamont, and the highly accompliſhed agreeable Miſs Boſwells.

After Mr. Monck Berkeley's arrival at Cheltenham, little ſociety could be kept up; but the attentions of the worthy Captain Abbot and his Lady at the next door, to prevent extraordinary noiſe in the houſe or court, are gratefully remembered; and the unwearied, polite, tender attentions during Mr. Berkeley's ſhort life, and the polite, tender, at⯑tentions after his lamented deceaſe, of the very learned accompliſhed Mr. Dunſter, and his elegant lady, were moſt gratefully felt by Dr. Berkeley, and will be for ever regiſtered in the retentive memory of the Editor.

[ccccv] It has been mentioned, that Mr. Berkeley never went out but twice at Cheltenham: he had therefore never the pleaſure of converſing with Mr. Dunſter; which he la⯑mented, for he was a great admirer of his writings^*.

[...] de la Bere, Eſquire, father of Mr. De la Bere, died only a very few days before Mr. Berkeley, who felt very ſenſibly the amiable delicacy of Mr. De la Bere, in ordering only a few ſtrokes of the knell, leſt it ſhould affect Mr. Berkeley. Alas! it affected his relations more than himſelf. He conſtantly enquired every day what account had been received of Mr. De la Bere; and one day ſaid, [ccccvi] ‘"I wonder which of us God will call firſt."’ He was, through Redeeming Mercy, as before mentioned, prepared for that journey that ALL muſt ſooner or later take. May ALL who read take the advice of our adored REDEEMER, ‘"Be ye therefore ready,"’ &c. The invalids in the elegant houſes in St. George's Place are conſiderably incom⯑moded by the ringing of bells a conſiderable time before ſervice begins on Sunday morning.

When Mr. Berkeley paſſed a bad night, and could have ſlept in the morning, the noiſe ſo very near prevented it. Dr. Berkeley ſent to the exceedingly obliging Mr. Edwards, one of the churchwardens, to requeſt that they might ring leſs time. He moſt politely ſent word, that he would take care that no bell ſhould move through the week, only juſt one bell toll five minutes before ſervice began.

Mr. Berkeley felt ſo much gratitude for this favour ſo amiably conferred, that he deſired Mrs. Berkeley would call on Mr. Edwards, and return him his beſt thanks.

Dr. Berkeley.—‘"I have ſent a meſſage of thanks to Mr. Edwards."’

Mr. B.—‘"A meſſage, my dear Sir? No; I beg that my dear Mother will go herſelf. She will ſay what a meſſage or card cannot ſay. She will expreſs what I feel. I therefore intreat that ſhe will go."’

[ccccvii] Accordingly, to gratify the amiable heart of her dear Son, Mrs. Berkeley went immediately, and endeavoured to expreſs to the worthy Mr. Edwards how ſenſibly Mr. Berkeley and his parents felt his kind amiability.

Mr. Edwards, the wine-merchant, had been many years gentleman to Biſhop Johnſon of Worceſter; whoſe angelic gratitude to the relict and daughter of his earlieſt friend, when reduced to poverty, can never be forgotten by any who have heard it, and to which he, by God's appoint⯑ment, owed his wonderful riſe in the Church.

The excellent Lady Heſkett's delightful ſociety and im⯑proving pious converſation aſſiſted the Editor much, in drawing off her mind from inceſſant meditation on the ſuf⯑ferings of her deareſt relatives. Her Ladyſhip was a COW⯑PER. She is worthy to be nicee of the Editor's Mother's excellent neighbour in Berkſhire, the excellent Mrs. Madan, mother of the preſent Biſhop of Peterborough.

The poor unhappy female, the infamous Lady Vane, in her latter days, after ſhe had loſt the uſe of all her limbs, took a houſe in her native Country of Berks, in order to be near a very eminent German apothecary. So extremely was her Ladyſhip afraid of culinary fire, that ſhe had a machine made to twirl her inſtantly out at her window, in caſe of any ſuch accident in the night.

[ccccviii] The Editor has been twice awakened out of a very ſound ſleep to eſcape from fire: the laſt time when Wriggleſ⯑worth's, the great Inn at York, was on fire. She has no machine; but her garments are regularly every night ſo placed, by herſelf and her maid (with her at York), as to be ready for inſtant flight.

From dread of culinary fire, as Lady Vane travelled down the vale of years towards the cold manſion appointed, ſooner or later, for all the daughters of Adam, however beautiful in youth, however ſtrongly varniſhed in age; her poor Ladyſhip began to apprehend, that one part of her might ſoon be in danger of A FIRE from which NO machine could poſſibly twirl her. The very worthy, witty, agreea⯑ble Mr. Henchman, Fellow of All Souls, uſed frequently to ride over to Cookham, and take a family dinner at Dr. Berke⯑ley's. Some time after Lady Vane had taken her houſe in Bray church-yard, he diverted all the company preſent by relating a dialogue that had the day before paſſed between her Ladyſhip and his worthy neighbour, the German medical man, who had juſt told Mr. Henchman how much her Ladyſhip had diſtreſſed him the day before by aſking him if he thought it poſſible ſhe ſhould be ſaved. The worthy man, in broken Engliſh, ſaid, ‘"Upon my vord, my Lady, I cannot tell—ſhould hope that—that—that— God voud not—voud not—I did not know vat to ſay to her, p [...]ir Lady; ſhe ſeemed ſo troubled, ſo frighted—ſo I ſaid, [ccccix] Your Ladyſhip had better aſk ſomebody that underſtands ſuch tings better dan I do. I was quite aſhamed I did not know vat anſwer to make to her at all."’ Mr. Hench⯑man ſaid, I told my good neighbour, that he ſhould have ſaid, ‘"To be ſure it was impoſſible that the Almighty ſhould think of d [...]g ſo public ſpirited a Lady."’ The Editor greatly wiſhed her Ladyſhip's Pariſh Miniſter, or ſome well⯑inſtructed Divine, to have viſited her, and have ſhewn her, that one gracious promiſe of the Saviour of great, as well as of LITTLE ſinners—‘"Him (or her) that cometh unto ME, I will no wiſe caſt out—come unto me ALL ye, &c. &c."’

She was once going to take the high houſe at Cookham; but, being an abſolute cripple, the ſtructure of the ſtair-caſe would not admit of her men carrying her chair up and down. If ſhe had taken it, the Editor, having no daugh⯑ter, and thereby feeling herſelf at full liberty to viſit, or not viſit, whom ſhe pleaſes, declared, to the no ſmall amuſement of many of her friends, that ‘"ſhe ſhould infallibly viſit Lady Vane."’ Alas, poor ſoul! ſhe, like moſt of the chil⯑dren of Adam, was a ſelf-deceiver, always declaring, that, ‘"had her dear Lord William Hamilton lived, ſhe had re⯑mained as chaſte as Diana."’ The Editor knows, from too good authority, that, for ſome time before the death of that ſingularly amiable, worthy, young Nobleman, her La⯑dyſhip's conduct had made him often very wretched. He [ccccx] was removed hardly in time for his own peace of mind. His ſtay would not have prevented her ſad fall. She had run away from her proſcribed father (South Sea Hawes) with Lord William Hamilton; and the Editor has, from her youth, delivered it as one of her maxims, that the lady who will run away with a man, will generally run away from him; perhaps it may be ſaid, tant mieux. There are, to be ſure, ſome few exceptions to all general rules; but, a girl of fifteen or ſixteen muſt be a bold little wretch, to quit a parent's houſe, and ſet off with ‘"that perſidious creature man."’ It requires ſome courage to ſet off to the Altar, led by a tender Parent or kind Guardian—at leaſt ſo thinks the Editor.

Mr. Monck Berkeley, deſcended from two men ſo famous in their generation as Biſhop Berkeley and Francis Cherry, Eſquire, in whoſe perſon all that was mortal of thoſe ex⯑cellent men ended; neither having now any lineal de⯑ſcendant that can carry their eminent amiable virtues to poſterity. Should the Editor at any time have it in her power to erect a monument, as Dr. Berkeley intended to do, in Cheltenham church, by the wonderfully powerful chiſſel of her worthy old acquaintance, J. Nollekins, Eſquire, the broken pillar muſt, alas! compoſe a part. It cannot, however, be recorded that the light of thoſe two great men was extinguiſhed in ſmoke. Bleſſed, for ever praiſed by the mercy of God, the blaze was brighter in [ccccxi] death than even in life. And thoſe two excellent ſpirits muſt have hailed with pleaſure, on his arrival in the region of happy ſpirits, the lovely ſpirit of their laſt deſcendant, who, in one reſpect, a very unimportant one^* many may ſay, excelled themſelves—the having had, at leaſt, a faith⯑ful ſketch of his life given to thoſe of the publick who may chooſe to ſpend an hour in reading it. Of every attempt of a life of Biſhop Berkeley yet publiſhed, his Son uſed to ſay, ‘"they are lamentably imperfect;"’ when Mr. Monck Berkeley, as above-mentioned, uſed to regret Dr. Berkeley had not permitted Dr. Johnſon to write the Life of Biſhop Berkeley.

There are a thouſand very curious, very diverting, ſome very ludicrous ancedotes ^† of that great and good Prelate, [ccccxii] that Dr. Berkeley and his Mother uſed to relate of the good Biſhop even from his childhood throughly diverting. The Editor is much addicted to watching children, before either the maſque is fitted on to hide, or grace infuſed to ſuppreſs to rectify—the lamentable doſe of Original Sin.

The Editor has more than once heard the late Lord [...] ſay, ‘"that he often preſſed a beloved friend of his to marry."’ He at length ſaid, ‘"I have long reſolved not to marry, that I may not be the means of propagating a race of Devils."’—‘"Of Devils, my dear Friend! Is it probable, that any thing ſprung from ſuch an angelic be⯑ing as yourſelf ſhould be Devils?"’—‘"Yes, my dear Friend, to be ſure I do, for I am one myſelf. All that you and [ccccxiii] many others ſo much admire in me is God's Grace; for I am by nature (and it bloomed moſt direfully in early youth before you knew me) the moſt ill-humoured, bad⯑tempered, malicious, diabolical being, I believe, ever born into the world. I think I muſt have ſprung from the inſernal regions. Now, as I am ſure, if I ſhould have children, they will, at leaſt ſome of them, inherit my horrible temper; and as I am by no means ſure that the ſame meaſure of Grace may be granted to them, as has, through the great mercy of God, been vouchſafed to me; I am reſolved to let my vaſt eſtate, about which you are ſo anxious, go to my uncle's family; they may perhaps be better than, I am ſure, mine would be. No⯑thing can ever ſhake my reſolution; it has been long un⯑alterably fixed. Examine the lines of my face attentively, and you will be convinced of the truth of what I tell you."’ His Lordſhip ſaid, ‘"there appeared ſome lines ſub⯑dued of what the excellent man aſſerted to be in his ſpi⯑rit."’ Every one knows how honourably Socrates juſtified the ſkill of a famous phyſiognomiſt, who, on coming to Athens, and pronouncing Socrates almoſt every thing that was bad, was treated as an impoſtor, until that noble phi⯑loſopher declared him an excellent judge, &c.

On the commencement of the hard froſt in 1739-40, the Biſhop went down to breakfaſt the firſt Sunday without a grain of powder in his wig; Mrs. Berkeley, the Chap⯑lain, [ccccxiv] and ſome company ſtaying in the houſe on a viſit, all called out at once, to enquire ‘"what ailed his Lordſhip?"’

Bp. Berkeley.—‘"A great deal ails me; for our poor are all about to be ſtarved. We ſhall have a famine. We ſhall have a very long froſt; and I am ſure it has already killed all the potatoes in this kingdom; therefore the poor muſt depend upon flour; ſo no powder will I, or ſhall any individual of my family wear, until next harveſt."’

They aſſured him that it disfigured him exceedingly, and that the men would look dirty. All perſuaſion was vain. He, during the froſt, and until the ſummer, gave, either in gold or in a bank note, every Monday morning, twenty pounds to proper perſons, to diſtribute amongſt the poor of the little town of Cloyne, beſides what they received daily, hourly, out of his kitchen and houſekeeper's room.

It was a ludicrous meſſage enough which the Biſhop re⯑ceived from one old woman: ‘"Her duty to his Lordſhip, and ſhe was very ſorry that ſhe had not lived better."’ The good Biſhop ſent her word, that ‘"he hoped ſhe would ſend for Mr. [...], (the name forgotten,) and talk with him, and lead the ſhort remainder of her life differently."’ She returned for anſwer, ‘"that his Lord⯑ſhip miſtook her quite. She had no trouble about her [ccccxv] ſowle, but was ſorry, as ſhe now (in her dying ſtate) got ſuch good things from his houſe, that ſhe had not con⯑ſtantly enjoyned them before, and could enjoy them ſo ſhort time now."’ It is to be ſuppoſed that this good woman's ideas of the joys of Heaven were very low.

The Editor has been often told by a very intimate ſenſi⯑ble friend, that HER ideas of Heaven are very high, VERY ſingular. Such as they are, ſome of her intimate friends now and then conjure her to treat them, as they are pleaſed to term it, with HER account of Heaven. She was once brought to public ſhame for this private converſation; for it is not to be ſuppoſed, that the Editor is quite fool enough to caſt her precious pearls, that ſeem to deck her wings for flight to thoſe delightful regions, before ſuch S [...]ne^* as frequently ſurround a drawing-room, or card⯑table.

A very fine lady once requeſting dear Dr. Berkeley and two other learned men ‘"to hold their tongues, that ſhe might hear more diſtinctly Mrs. Berkeley's account of Heaven, it was ſo enchanting;"’ this ſo ſhamed poor Mr. Berke⯑ley, that it almoſt turned Heaven into H [...]l. Dr. Berke⯑ley, laughing, ſaid, ‘"It is wonderful, how many people love to hear my wife talk of Heaven. She has never been [ccccxvi] there yet. But [...] (calling her by her name) knows the Bible by heart from end to end."’ There is certainly much to be gathered from that ſacred volume concerning the ſtate of happy ſpirits, much more than can be imagined by thoſe who do not read it very attentively, and with a view to diſcover the hidden treaſure. With regard to what relates to our ſalvation, ‘"He that runs may read;"’ bleſſed be the mercy of God!

A ſmart young Divine, a relation of Dr. Berkeley's, had one day after dinner a conteſt with Mrs. Berkeley about a text of Scripture; when he, very intimate in the family, ſaid, ‘"My dear Madam, is it not very ſtrange, that you will contend with me, who am a Clergyman, concerning Scripture?"’ (He was then about twenty-three.) Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"Oh! George, it would be very happy for you, and many other Divines, if they were as throughly acquainted with the Holy Scriptures as that lady is. I fre⯑quently apply to her."’ The Editor has little other know⯑ledge to boaſt of; and that knowledge muſt, in every inſtance, EXCLUDE BOASTING; but, had ſhe not ſome of it, ſhe muſt have been a doleful dolt indeed; having been made to hear or read four chapters every day of her life at family prayers at her Father's, with her leading-ſtring at her back, (as mentioned in a letter in the St. James's Chronicle near eighteen months ago, combating the learned Dr. Beattie's treatment of his ſon, with regard to the exiſtence of a [ccccxvii] Supreme Being,) and thenceforward until this preſent day; and, ſhe humbly truſts, to the laſt hour of her life; beſides every day's private reading, alone, ſome portion of that all-informing volume.

But to return from this long digreſſion to Mr. Monck Berkeley's noble and non-noble^* grandſires. The Editor does not recollect to have redde, in any of Biſhop Berke⯑ley's lives, that mention is made of his utterly refuſing to incloſe the great common at Cloyne, where the poor uſed to cut their peat, turn their cows, pigs, and poultry; the doing which had nearly coſt the preſent Earl of Briſtol his life, he being obliged to be guarded out of Cloyne by an old friend of Dr. Berkeley, Mr. Lumley of Ballymaloo Caſ⯑tle, riding with a cocked piſtol cloſe to the CHARITABLE Prelate's ear, declaring that the firſt man who threw a ſtone [ccccxviii] was a dead man, as that gentleman's mother told Dr. Berkeley in his drawing-room, the Editor being preſent. It were to be wiſhed that worthy-ſpirited gentleman, or ſome as worthy and fearleſs, had been on the jury who acquitted C [...]ld. How often has the Editor rejoiced to hear her Son thank the goodneſs of God, that the ſaid ſupport of the poor was not united to his ſmall patrimony by his epiſcopal grandſire!

No regular life of Mr. Cherry has ever been attempted, as of Biſhop Berkeley, to be written. A ſhort ſketch ap⯑peared, in 1782, in Mr. Nichols's "Leiceſterſhire Collec⯑tions^*," where his Chaplain, the Rev. Francis Brokeſby, is mentioned. The Iriſh Demoſthenes once did him the honour to ſay, ‘"It is a ſhame, Madam, that the life of your grandfather has not been written."’ Mrs. Berkeley once met with a ſmall diverting humiliation, on account of being deſcended from that excellent man, to the no ſmall diverſion of Dr. and Dr. Mr. Monck Berkeley. Returning from her morning walk, clad as uſual in the morning (the Editor never waſtes the morning in walking but in winter^†, [ccccxix] ſhe being now too tender in exceſſive cold weather to venture to walk after dinner for health, although it is wonderfully beneficial for thoſe, who, dining at a reaſonable hour, at three o'clock, can do it, as the Editor does experience, and has ſeen in various perſons), with a black beaver hat tied under her chin, and wrapped round in a rather ruſty black mode cloack, ſhe ſtroled into Dr. Berkeley's room, not knowing that any one was with him. There happened to be a perſon more eſteemed in the world for his great learning and true worth, than for his title and rank in ſociety. In the courſe of converſation, Mr. Cherry was named. Dr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"A relation of my wife."’ The viſitor, probably wiſhing to hear ſome anecdote of that excellent man, turned to Mrs. Berkeley, ſaying, ‘"Pray, Madam, do you know any thing of Mr. Cherry?"’ ſuppoſing her, as it ſhould ſeem by the ſequel, a diſtant relation. She replied, ‘"He was my mo⯑ther's father."’ He ſtarted aſtoniſhed, and ſaid, ‘"What, Madam, are YOU a grand-daughter of the great Mr. Cherry?"’ Mrs. Berkeley, ſmiling, ſaid, ‘"She had that honour."’ The enquirer's politeneſs and good ſenſe pre⯑vented [ccccxx] his apologizing, by ſaying, ‘"Madam, I aſk your pardon; I did not conceive that ſuch an inſignificant, un⯑dreſſed, little being could poſſibly be deſcended from the very handſome, noble-looking Mr. Cherry"’—univerſally eſteemed the moſt completely accompliſhed fine gentleman of his time. A picture of Mr. Cherry by Richardſon is in the Picture-gallery at Oxford^*, preſented after his death by his lady and daughters.

[ccccxxi] The Editor and her Siſter have a very fine picture of Mr. Cherry, painted by Riley, in a full-bottomed twenty-guinea wig, when Mr. Cherry was a Gentleman-Commoner of Edmund Hall not quite ſeventeen years old. This tremendous peruke does not ſo abſolutely diſguiſe him, but that, on attentive inſpection, he appears a very beauti⯑ful youth.

Mr. Cherry married ſoon after he was twenty. His houſe, which, at the Revolution, made up ſeventy beds for the officers and ſoldiers quartered on him, was the ho⯑tel devoted to friendſhip, to learning, to diſtreſs.

With Sir Conſtantine Phipps, grandſire of the preſent Lord Mulgrave, he formed an acquaintance at Oxford. He was a native of Reading, and went off from Archbiſhop Laud's ſchool to St. John's College, Oxford. It was a very advantageous connection for the barriſter, who, until his ap⯑pointment by Queen Anne to the ſeals in Ireland, had no country reſidence but Shotteſbrook Houſe, where himſelf, lady, three girls ſometimes, the amiable T. Phipps, his angelic eldeſt ſon, their coach-horſes, ſaddle-horſes, and [ccccxxii] three or four ſervants, conſtantly ſpent four months every ſummer.

The reſpected and reſpectable friends of Mr. and Mrs. Cherry, [...] Bowdler, Eſquire, his excellent Lady and family, grandfather, &c. of the pious reſigned Miſs Bowdler, author of the Eſſays.

The ſeraphic Biſhop Kenn^* found a ſecond home at Shotteſbrook Houſe, dividing his time between the Mar⯑quis [ccccxxiii] of Bath's grandfather's famed manſion^*, and Mr. [ccccxxiv] Cherry's. Dr. Grabe, and many other learned foreigners, ſpent much time at Shotteſbrook Houſe.

The very learned Charles Leſlie was concealed ſix months by Mr. Cherry in regimentals, not under his own roof, but at an houſe of Mr. Cherry's at White Waltham, then called the Hill Houſe, now Waltham Place. He went to Rome at Mr. Cherry's requeſt, and at his expence, to at⯑tempt to convert the old Chevalier de St. George. A won⯑derful idea to enter into the heads of two ſo very ſenſible men, to convert an ignorant Papiſt, forbidden by his cunning Confeſſor to ſearch the Scriptures, leſt he ſhould ſee the ALL-ſufficiency of Chriſt to ſave loſt ſinners. In a letter from Rome to Mr. Cherry, he ſays, ‘"It would be much eaſier to turn the courſe of the Thames at London Bridge, than to convert his Majeſty."’ This Prince's health was conſtantly given every day at Mr. Cherry's, when only Nonjurors were preſent. After the death of ſeveral of the conſcientious non⯑juring Biſhops, the few remaining pious nonjuring Prelates, who were anxious not to continue the ſchiſm in the excel⯑lent Church of England, and all the pious Nonjurors agreed, throughout the kingdom, to go to their reſpective pariſh churches on the ſame day, always taking care to avoid praying for the Queen as Queen.

The Editor has frequently heard her Mother laugh at the different diſpoſitions of Mr. Cherry and his friend Mr. [ccccxxv] Dodwell. Every time during the ſervice that the Queen was prayed for, her Father roſe from his knees, (fine gentlemen kneeled to God in thoſe old-faſhioned times—the Editor hopes they will take to it again, to diſtinguiſh them from the profane ladies of theſe times, who almoſt all now ſit when they ſhould kneel, although they do not worſhip—alas! for them, poor ſouls!), and ſtood up facing the congrega⯑tion. Mr. Dodwell uſed to ſlide off his knees, and ſit down upon his haſſock.

Mr. Cherry, a native of Windſor Foreſt, was, to the end of his life, perhaps the keeneſt ſtag-hunter in England, eſteemed to ride better than any man in the kingdom, al⯑ways in at the death of the deer. He had one hunter, a very fine iron grey, an entire, who never ſuffered any one to mount him but Mr. Cherry. The groom was always obliged to lead him to water. He once, croſſing Maiden⯑head Bridge, got himſelf and maſter half over the rails, and there remained, no one daring to go near; all trembling for Mr. Cherry, the idol of Berkſhire. Boats in abundance put out, to endeavour to ſave him, when this ſpirited beaſt ſhould throw him off. In that tremendous ſituation he remained near a quarter of an hour, and then got the beaſt on the bridge again^*.

[ccccxxvi] Archbiſhop Potter told the late Archdeacon Dodwell the following anecdote of his father's excellent friend.

‘"King William, who valued himſelf much on his horſe⯑manſhip, was frequently mortified by hearing his courtiers admiring Mr. Cherry's wonderful ſkill in riding, and re⯑ſolved at length that he would follow Mr. Cherry every [ccccxxvii] where. After ſome days, Mr. Cherry, finding that it was not chance that conſtantly kept his Majeſty juſt behind him, determined to try to ſerve his, as he conceived, lawful Sovereign, by breaking the neck of the Uſurper. He went over many very dangerous places. The King, excel⯑lently mounted, and a very good horſeman, ſtill followed. One day, when the ſtag took the ſoil, Mr Cherry inſtantly plunged into a frightfully deep and broad part of the Thames. The King went to the brink, looked, and looked again, then ſhook his head, and retired. His Majeſty thought the actual poſſeſſion of three kingdoms better than the fame of being as good a horſeman as Mr. Cherry, thus yielding the palm to Mr. Cherry. He never followed him afterwards, to the great comfort of his Majeſty's attendants."’ The late Sir Robert Gayer^*, of [ccccxxviii] Stoke Park, near Windſor, abſolutely refuſed to let King Wil⯑liam in to ſee his houſe, his Majeſty waiting in his coach at the door—poor Lady Gayer ſupplicating—His anſwer, ‘"No, he is an Uſurper. Every man in England is King in his own caſtle. He ſhall not come in."’ So his Majeſty re⯑turned to Windſor, and died without ſeeing Stoke Houſe.

[ccccxxix] During the reign of King William, Mr. Cherry always on hunting days rode up to the Princeſs of Denmark's ca⯑laſh, (the chaiſe in which her Royal Highneſs hunted was ſo called,) to pay his reſpects. The Princeſs admired his converſation, his uncommonly fine underſtanding, and ex⯑quiſitely high breeding, as politeneſs (now ſaid to be HOR⯑RIDLY old faſhioned^*) was termed in thoſe AWKWARD [ccccxxx] days. On her obtaining a crown, ſhe loſt the converſation of Mr. Cherry, who was too correctly well bred to think of approaching that throughly reſpectable Princeſs to inſult her; and no bribe could ever have induced him to ac⯑knowledge himſelf her ſubject, whilſt her father and brother [ccccxxxi] were living; Mr. Cherry took great pains, as far as the oath of a woman of the bed-chamber to King James's Queen could aſcertain it, to be fully convinced that the Chevalier de St. George was actually produced by his Queen. The oath of the facts to which the lady ſwore was care⯑fully preſerved by Mr. Cherry; and accordingly, the firſt day that her Majeſty hunted after her acceſſion to the throne, Mr. Cherry kept aloof from Royalty. Her Majeſty called to her officer, known in thoſe days by the name of the Bottle-man, ſaying,

‘"Peachy, if my eyes do not deceive me, I ſee Mr. Cherry upon the field."’

Peachy.—‘"Yes, pleaſe your Majeſty, he is yonder."’ (pointing with his whip.)

The Queen.—‘"Aye, he will not come to me now. I know the reaſon. But go you, and carry him a couple of bottles of red wine and white from me; and tell him, that I eſteem him one of the honeſteſt gentlemen in my dominions."’

The Editor, although not ſo nobly deſcended as her be⯑loved Partner, ſometimes feels a momentary pleaſure in knowing ſhe is deſcended from honeſt anceſtors; and the character always given by the ſenſible, elegant, lovely Mrs. Sheeles of the Editor and her ſiſter, when girls at ſchool, [ccccxxxii] was, ‘"They are honeſt to the bone ^*; they have no deceit in them."’

When Mr. Monck Berkeley ſometimes ſaw perſons acting polite deceits, he uſed to ſay, ‘"Well, whatever faults I have, thank God and my Mother, I am at leaſt an honeſt man."’ A very witty friend of the Editor's youth, well known in the world for his bons mols, now no more, uſed to ſay, when men of a certain rank in the world acted like ſcoun⯑drels, ‘"Well, he will not be hanged; for no poor wretch ever goes to the gallows, whoſe confeſſion does not begin, That he was born of poor, but HONEST parents."’

But to return to Mr. Cherry. He did not return his duty to a Sovereign he did not acknowledge as ſuch; he [ccccxxxiii] requeſted Mr. Peachy to preſent his very humble reſpects and beſt thanks to his (Mr. Peachy's) Miſtreſs, for the high honour conferred on him. The favour was frequently re⯑peated.

Mr. Cherry died juſt one year before the Queen. After the Rebellion in 1715, Mrs. Cherry in her coach, with her two daughters, driving down Ludgate Hill, met ſeveral coaches filled with the unfortunate gentlemen who had been in the Rebellion returning to Newgate after their ſentence: ſhe exclaimed, ‘"Oh! my dear girls, bleſs the goodneſs of God, that your excellent father is dead, or he had been amongſt thoſe unhappy men; for, I am ſure, he would never have worn a ſword without drawing it in this cauſe; and he would certainly have been hanged."’

King William ſent repeated offers of any thing, and every thing, to Mr. Cherry, if he would go to Court, and take the oaths. Queen Anne, it ſhould ſeem, was too well acquainted with Mr. Cherry to make him any ſuch offers, She ſhewed her eſteem for that throughly honeſt man in other ways.

A conſiderable part of Mr. Cherry's very large eſtate lay in Windſor Foreſt. It is to this day a lucky circumſtance for the beautiful county of Berks, that Mr. Cherry's won⯑derfully [ccccxxxiv] acute father, when in the country, reſided there rather than at his eſtate in Surrey.

On the firſt laying on the land-tax, meetings were called by the Sheriffs in every county in England. At Reading, nearly central, always the county town, until the old Lord Harcourt contrived to get electors and jurymen dragged down to Abingdon, the laſt town—pariſh—in the county—At Reading the whole county met, and were harangued by a miniſterial orator, telling them ‘"that the tax was only to be levied ONE year, and every gentleman and yeoman was to give in the full value of his own eſtate."’ Some few of the gentlemen, zealous friends to the new government, (for Berks was always an honeſt Tory county) and others from motives of vanity, gave in the value of their eſtates more than double, ſaying, ‘"Come, let us do the thing handſomely, generouſly."’ When an entry was about to be committed to paper, that ^* acuteſt of barriſters ſtepped forth, requeſting to be heard a few words. His oratory was different from that of many modern barriſters; it was [ccccxxxv] rather laconic. The Editor remembers to have heard it often repeated, always applauded, ſince ſhe was ſeven years old.

The great-grandſire of the preſent Lord le Deſpenſer cried out, ‘"Mr. Cherry ſpeaks like an Oracle. I am ſure, in my hurry, I have given in my eſtate too high."’ It lay in what is called the antient demeſne of Bray; and the Edi⯑tor has frequently heard her Mother ſay, that Sir William Paul's ^* eſtate at Bray was then called a good four thouſand [ccccxxxvi] pounds per annum. Almoſt every other gentleman fol⯑lowed Sir William Paul's example, and all gave in their eſtates much under par, many not half their real value; by which means Berkſhire is, next to Yorkſhire, ſaid, by thoſe who have really inveſtigated that matter, to be the loweſt taxed county in England; and accordingly it is, in the upper part of it, Windſor, Maidenhead, &c. the deareſt, the farmers, butchers, gardeners, mealmen, &c. the moſt covetous and griping any where to be met with.

[ccccxxxvii] Mr. Cherry's great-great-grandſon, George Monck Berke⯑ley, Eſquire, lived to ſee, although not to feel, in his own perſon, (his Mother and Aunt, alas! ſurviving him,) the fulfilment of his grandſire's prediction.

The Editor, having treſpaſſed too long on the Public with her own imbecil pen, in order to make ſome amends, preſents her readers with two letters from very ſuperior pens, the two abovenamed great and good men from whom Mr. Monck Berkeley had the honour to be deſcended; one from Biſhop Berkeley on the death of his favourite Son, the other from Mr. Cherry to his Lady, ordering his own interment.

[cccxl] The following letter is inſerted with the notes, as it was made ready for the "Literary Relics:"

[ccccxliv] No date. It was written ſeveral months before Mr. Cherry's death, which he had ſeen approaching with ſuch entire confidence in the glorious promiſes of our all-graci⯑ous Redeemer, that on the Saturday preceding his death, [ccccxlv] which happened on the Wedneſday, he danced until the clock ſtruck twelve. (His beloved nephew (eldeſt ſon of his eldeſt ſiſter) James Hayes, Eſq. of Holyport, father of James Hayes, Eſq. late one of his Majeſty's Judges for North Wales, then recently married.) Mr. Cherry ſaid one day to his lady, ‘"We have not had the new-married couple to dinner: yet we muſt have them; the laſt veniſon we ſhall have this ſeaſon is fit to dreſs for every body but myſelf;" (Mr. Cherry frequently had a haunch hung up, like his nephew Dr. Cherry Hayes, of Windſor, until it was ready to ſhake from the bone). "Send over a ſervant to invite them for Saturday."’ Of courſe ſome other families in the neighbour⯑hood [ccccxlvi] were invited to meet them. During the time of dinner Mr. Cherry ſaid, ‘"It is juſt come into my head, that I muſt have a dance with the bride."’—Mrs. Cherry objected, leſt it might injure him. He replied, ‘"My dear, I am as well able to dance now as I was the firſt time I had the happineſs^* to dance with you."’ The young lady, one of the moſt amiable of women—(the Hayes family are remarkably lucky in chooſing ſweet-tempered women, at leaſt Mr. Hayes and his ſon were ſo; may their worthy deſcendants [ccccxlvii] be as fortunate as their father and grandfather!—when theſe gentlemen loſt their lovely mother, the Editor loſt a moſt ſincerely beloved friend; and ALL the ſurrounding poor a real viſible Guardian Angel. Adieu, ſweet ſpirit!)—this lady may, perhaps, like to think that ſhe has danced with her old uncle^* (Mr. Cherry died at 46). Then, turning to the [ccccxlviii] butler, he ordered him to ſend the groom over to Woo⯑burn, to fetch the muſic: it ſoon arrived, and to dancing they went, and continued their dance until the clock ſtruck twelve. Mr. Cherry went to church on the Sunday, and died on the Wedneſday morning following. His intimate friend Mr. Nelſon^* went over from Cranford Houſe to ſpend the day with him, and found him dying. He ſtayd as late as he could, to have carried the news to Lord Berkeley that his friend Mr. Cherry's noble ſpirit had taken its happy flight to the realms of bliſs, which it did at four in the [ccccxlix] morning of the next day; and, it may be hoped, the worthy Earl ſome years after; if he attended to the rules given to him at his own ^* requeſt by his angelic friend Mary Counteſs of Warwick, the favourite ſiſter of the SERAPHIC Robert Boyle.

It is impoſſible to diſmiſs the ſhort account of that real Patriot, Biſhop Berkeley, without mentioning his voyage to America; one grand deſign of which, no doubt, was, to introduce Epiſcopacy, unadulerated Epiſcopacy, that of the incomparable Church of England into the Weſtern Hemiſ⯑phere; his Lordſhip frequently declaring, ‘"If Sir [...] [...] and Lord [...] do continue to ſucceed in defeating every ſcheme to introduce it there; that nobleſt, grandeſt part of the Britiſh Empire of the WHOLE world^† will be loſt; they will ſhake off the Mother Country in a few years. Nothing but introducing Biſhops amongſt them can keep them together, can keep them loyal^‡. Church [ccccl] and State, in every country, muſt ſtand and fall toge⯑ther."’ What the learned Father ſo ardently wiſhed, ſo earneſtly laboured after, the acute Son happily accom⯑pliſhed; but it was ‘"after the ſteed was ſtolen that the ſtable door was ſhut;"’ for America IS loſt. Now that he is gone to receive the reward of this ‘"good deed,"’ and can no longer be ‘"brow-beat^*"’ for it, it may be known to thoſe who did not oppoſe it, as it has long been to thoſe that did, that Dr. Berkeley, Prebendary of Canterbury, by his wiſe argu⯑ments, perſuaded the learned, ſenſible, pious Prelates of Scotland to conſecrate Biſhop Seabury, to their honour, and the delight of his own amiable ſpirit; and, it may be hoped, to the everlaſting happineſs of many thouſands of ſouls; for, when the oppoſers ſaw that one Proteſtant Biſhop had been furniſhed to America, notwithſtanding all their oppoſition, they e'en ſent a few more. Why ſuch oppoſi⯑tion has been made to the conferring of that invaluable bleſ⯑ſing [ccccli] on the Weſtern World for almoſt three quarters of a century, the OPPOSERS beſt know; and at a certain day we ſhall ALL know; perhaps ſome may venture a gueſs before the arrival of that great day—‘"That day for which ALL other days were made." Dr. YOUNG.’

The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley, and his mother, who was there, ſay, that in Rhode Iſland, about twenty miles in circumference, there were, at the time of the Biſhop's reſidence there, no leſs than ſixteen different ſects in religion, Preſbyterians, Baptiſts of various ſorts, &c.; and it was cuſtomary for ſtrangers to aſk their viſitors, ‘"Pray of what religion are you?"’ and diſcourſe with them on the ſubject of their diſſent from the other FIFTEEN. All, how⯑ever, excelled the majority, alas! in England at preſent, in agreeing, that it was neceſſary to keep one day in ſeven holy to the Supreme Governor of the univerſe. Accordingly, on the Biſhop's making this uſual enquiry, it was ſometimes anſwered, ‘"I am a Friday-man—I a Saturday-man,"’ and others acknowledged themſelves SEEKERS—that they were ſeeking for the beſt religion, and had not yet found it. Theſe, it is to be feared, excel thouſands in England, who never ^* ſeek at all. When two perſons of different ſects mar⯑ried, [cccclii] a bargain was conſtantly made, that, if they changed their religion, which they often did twice in ſix weeks, if they did not turn to the huſband's or wife's, and would exchange it for a new one, that new one ſhould be the Church of England; ſo tacitly acknowledging that to be beſt of FIFTEEN different religions. Surely ladies who are fond of new faſhions would find it mighty pleaſant to reſide ſometimes at Rhode Iſland—a quite new watering⯑place.

This account has been confirmed to the Editor by the very worthy, amiable Samuel Johnſon, Eſquire, of Connecti⯑cut, before mentioned in this Preface, who was a Privy⯑counſellor of Connecticut, the only Church of England-man that colony had ever elected. He was ſent over here, before we loſt America, to ſolicit a cauſe before his Majeſty's Privy Council. He was many years here—about ſeven. His father, Dr. Samuel Johnſon, a very learned man, an emi⯑nent Preſbyterian miniſter, was convinced by Biſhop Berke⯑ley's arguments, and ſaw the Divine right of Epiſcopacy. He preached ſeveral Sundays upon it, and at length told his congregation, that he was ſo fully convinced of it, that [ccccliii] the next Sunday he ſhould attend Epiſcopal worſhip, and wiſhed them all to accompany him, (which moſt of them did,) telling them, that ‘"he ſhould not PRESUME to miniſter any longer in things ſacred, until he had obtained Epiſco⯑pal ordination;"’ which he ſoon did. He wrote ſeveral very learned treatiſes, and a very good Hebrew Grammar. His excellent ſon had the degree of LL.D. conferred on him by the Univerſity of Oxford during his reſidence in Eng⯑land. He always ſpent great part of every ſummer at Dr. Berkeley's, and conſtantly, until after the breaking out of the American war, ſent over two immenſe double barrels of fine American New-Town pippins, the fineſt grow⯑ing on Long Iſland, of which his elder brother was proprietor.

The Editor uſed to delight all her friends and neighbours by preſenting them with ſome, and herſelf by making her gardener every year ſow ſome pips in the melon-frame, and at proper times plant them out. There are now eight fine trees, thicker than herſelf, bearing ſix different fruits, only one of them reſembling the parent fruit; one quite through the colour of an orange, exquiſitely finely flavoured for about ſix weeks, when it becomes ſo nauſeouſly ſweet, that nothing but her Chineſe pigs will eat them; one a green, ſtrong, ſour apple, that keeps till May. The Edi⯑tor is a great gardener, and made her children ſuch, telling her friends, that "when God created man, HE placed him [ccccliv] in a garden, not in a houſe. It was SIN that made an houſe neceſſary as well as cloaths. The young women now con⯑trive to do without cloathing. The Editor wiſhes ſome contrivance could be found out for aged matrons to do without houſes, as rent and TAXES run away with much of a ſmall income.

In one thing, however, the different ſectariſts, both men and women, all agreed, viz. in a rage for finery, to the great amuſement of Biſhop Berkeley's two learned, ele⯑gant friends, Sir John James, and Richard Dalton, Eſquire; the men in flaming ſcarlet coats and waiſtcoats, laced and fringed with the brighteſt glaring yellow. The ſly Quakers, not venturing on theſe charming coats and waiſtcoats, yet loving finery, figured away with plate at their ſide-board, or rather beaufait. One, to the no ſmall diverſion of Bi⯑ſhop Berkeley, ſent to England, and had made on purpoſe, no ſuch thing being to be found, a noble large tea-pot of ſolid gold, and enquired of the Biſhop, when drinking tea with him, whether friend Berkeley had ever ſeen ſuch a ‘"curious thing?"’ On being told that ſilver ones were much in uſe in England, but that he had never ſeen a gold one; Ebenezer replied, ‘"Aye, that was the thing; I was reſolved to have ſomething finer than any body elſe. They ſay that the Queen (Queen Caroline) has not got one."’ The Biſhop delighted his ridiculous hoſt, by aſſuring him, ‘"that his was an unique;"’ and very happy it made him.

[cccclv] Oh, the fools! ſay rather the knaves! If the Kingdom of God, as ſpeaks St. Paul, ‘"does not conſiſt in meat and drink;"’ can it ſignify whether an inſignificant individual wears a coat or gown of one colour or another?

The Editor once met a rich Quaker woman at tea, at the houſe of a perſon of quality in her neighbourhood, and happened to have on a pair of very fine point ruffles, pur⯑chaſed at the time of her marriage, for ſhe loved her chil⯑dren too well to buy fine point or lace afterwards. After tea, the company, as is ſurely pleaſant in ſummer, went out to ſtroll in the garden; when the lady of the houſe called the attention of the Quaker to the Editor's lace. She piouſly ſhook her wiſe head, and ſaid, ‘"I doubt thee beeſt proud of them, vain of them."’ The Editor quietly replied, ‘"I hope not: why ſhould I? I am a gentleman's daughter, and a gentleman's wife; and I have, from my cradle, been dreſſed as ſuch; and if thee"—(the Editor always thees and thous them—they like Sir or Madam much better; but, if they will not give it, they ought in CONSCIENCE not to receive it)—"and, if thee wilt excuſe me, I do not think that I have half the vanity that thou haſt; for I have not once called the attention of any of the company to my ruffles, and thou haſt gone to every individual in the room, to ſhew them that bauble at thy watch, telling them, it was given to thee by Lady [...], and taking that op⯑portunity of ſhewing a very fine watch; beſides, as that [cccclvi] is a ſolid pebble, not an egg that opens, to hold ſome⯑thing to regale thy noſe, I fear it muſt be deemed a VAIN ornament. Now ruffles keep my arms warm."’ A circle gathered round the Lady who exhibited the ruffles, Friend [...] and Mrs. Berkeley. They all laughed much; and the poor Quaker ſaid, ‘"Thee beeſt right; it is of no uſe; I will take it off when I go home, and lock it up."’

When Dr. Berkeley was rector of Action, a female Qua⯑ker, who lived in the next pariſh, and was ſaid to rouge her cheeks, hearing the ſame of Dr. Berkeley's preaching, deſired to go to Acton church with Mr. and Mrs. W [...]. A day or two after, Mr. W [...]'s family dining at Dr. Berkeley's, Mrs. W [...] ſaid, ‘"Mrs. [...] was a little out of luck laſt Sunday;"’ then related as above; adding, ‘"that ever ſhe ſhould come to hear her people ſo tuned!"’ The ſentence alluded to was, ‘"All Chriſtians, of every communion, agree in this point, ex⯑cepting the Quakers, if indeed they can be ſtyled Chriſ⯑tians, who have no ſacraments at all, and who do not al⯑low of Water Baptiſm, deſpiſing that important denunci⯑ation of our adored Redeemer, 'Except a man be born of WATER and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven."’ The Friend, however, told Mrs. W [...], that Dr. Berkeley was a very fine Preacher.

[cccclvii] Biſhop Berkeley was a real Patriot, not a PAT-RIOT, as that Prelate always wittily ſtyled his own bawling (as he called them) countrymen, the contraſts to himſelf, Dean Swift, Dr. Madan, and a very few more temporal ^* ſa⯑viours of Ireland. The power of the Drapier's Letters all know. Biſhop Berkeley's letter to the Roman Catho⯑lics of the Dioceſe of Cloyne, as mentioned above, had its deſerved attention from the wiſe Clergy of that communion throughout the nation. The lower rank of Roman Catholics, all round the neighbourhood of Cloyne, with one voice uſed to declare, that they did not trouble them⯑ſelves who had the beſt right to the Crown, King George, or King Charles; ‘"but my Lord, i.e. the Biſhop, knew very well—and they would therefore fight for whoever his Lordſhip bid them."’ One Popiſh gentleman, alas! for⯑feited his vaſt eſtate, at the age of only eighteen, for having raiſed ſome of his tenants in the ſervice of King James [cccclviii] juſt after the battle of the Boyne: he had not marched them off his own eſtate; but unluckily that eſtate lying conveniently for two of his Proteſtant relations, it was for⯑feited, and HE reduced to extreme poverty, reſiding in a cottage, with a wife and two daughters. When Biſhop Berkeley went to reſide at Cloyne, in the year 1734, he found the unfortunate Mr. Fitzgerald as above deſcribed, and in his grand climacteric. He habited him comfortably, gave him an invitation to dine at the palace every day, bought him a quiet horſe, on which he rode out in fine weather, the Biſhop keeping it, and one of his grooms attend⯑ing to it. When any perſon dined at the palace beſide the Biſhop's family, Mr. Fitzgerald, at his own entreaty, always dined at the ſteward's table; to whoſe room he every day retired to ſmoke his pipe. Dr. Berkeley and his brother, when there was not company, frequently at⯑tending this ‘"Cullen of other times,"’ to hear, as youths and girls of ſenſe always wiſh to do, what was tranſacted before their parents were born.

Mr. Fitzgerald had a ſmall potatoe ground, and two cows. The Editor honours the lower ranks of people in Ireland for their kindneſs to their fallen ſuperiors. As Mrs. Fitzgerald kept no maid, the neighbouring poor women milked her cows, made her butter, ſcalded her veſſels, &c. ſaying often to the Biſhop's Lady, ‘"that it was not fitten the poor Laady and her daughters ſhould do ſuch drudgery:"’ ſo [cccclix] they, amongſt them, did it for them. Biſhop Berkeley, on his leaving Ireland to go to reſide at Oxford, to ſuper⯑intend his Son's education there, left a certain eſtabliſh⯑ment at Cloyne. Mr. Fitzgerald dined there every day as uſual, his horſe being kept, &c.

On hearing of the death of Biſhop Berkeley, he exclaimed, ‘"My only friend is gone!"’ leaned back on his chair, and in⯑ſtantly expired. He died ſpeaking the truth^*, as he con⯑ceived; for the Editor has frequently heard Mrs. Berkeley ſay, that neither of the Earls, his kinſmen, who divided his [cccclx] eſtate, ever gave him a ſhilling. It was not pleaſant to them to hear him named.

One day, when they, their ladies, and families, had dined at Biſhop Berkeley's, juſt as the coaches were driving out of the court-yard, a violent clamour, was heard ſcolding, ſcreaming, crying. It was, alas! poor Mrs. Fitzgerald and her daughters, reproaching their noble, rich, (not, alas! very ‘"rich in good works,’ &c.) kindred with ‘"avarice and cruelty, enjoying their eſtate, and leaving them to ſtarve, but for the good Biſhop."’

The very grateful Mr. Fitzgerald had made a will^*, which was ſent to Mr. Berkeley at Chriſt's College, bequeathing, in caſe the Houſe of Stuart ſhould ever come to the throne, and [cccclxi] the poor PROPRIETORS have their eſtates reſtored, his WHOLE property, excepting fortunes to his two daughters, to Biſhop Berkeley's eldeſt ſon, and requeſting the poſſible King to grant the title conferred on him by King James, of Baron Mont⯑eagle, on the Biſhop's ſon.

Neither Doctor Berkeley nor his Son could ever be per⯑ſuaded by their friends to go to Court, and be preſented, without any cauſe calling them thither. Both laughed at the idea of almoſt every Country 'Squire, and unpreferred Divine, going to St. James's. He uſed to anſwer one old friend, who often urged him on the ſubject, by ſaying, ‘"When his Majeſty wants me, he will ſend for me; he knows who I am, and where I live: and my curate (that ſurely fineſt of all fine Preachers, the late pious Mr. Harmer,) goes frequently, and that is enough."’

Dr. Berkeley felt gratified by a gentleman of his Ma⯑jeſty's houſehold once telling him, that, on aſking leave of abſence for a few days, his Royal Maſter aſked whither he was going, he replied, ‘"To Dr. Berkeley's at Cookham."’ His Majeſty ſaid, ‘"His Father was an honour to human na⯑ture."’ His Majeſty had not a more active, zealous friend than Dr. Berkeley; nor certainly a more diſinte⯑reſted one.

[cccclxii] Dr. Berkeley was at a very great expence to diſperſe his famous Sermon on the thirtieth of January. Only a few months before his lamented death he printed the ſixth edi⯑tion, on common paper, and had one thouſand of them diſperſed over England. On its firſt publication, it went through five editions in four weeks. He has repeatedly told the Editor, that the notes of the fifth edition, in ſmall duodecimo, not now to be purchaſed for any ſum, are all, except one, anſwers to letters, from ‘"Lords and Gentle⯑men,"’ ſome admiring, ſome with Nicodemus, enquiring, ‘"How can theſe things be^*?"’ To have anſwered all the letters received on that Sermon, he ſaid, would have taken a ream of paper. One from the Editor's, not Dr. Berke⯑ley's, old acquaintance, Soame Jenyns, written a very ſhort time before the death of that entertaining, agreeable, great genius, and, at length, devout Chriſtian, is carefully pre⯑ſerved by the Editor, who lately found an odd glove in her cabinet, that happened to be dropped by a beloved friend the laſt time ſhe ever viſited her, about twenty years ago. The Editor has a picture of her friend, and other ſouve⯑nirs; yet the glove is ſtill preſerved with care. Why is it? perhaps it brings the laſt idea of the beloved object to the mind. One knows not why elſe. Perhaps the mind of [cccclxiii] man can never be fully defined by man; yet it is a delight⯑ful ſtudy ſurely, next to obſerving the wonderful ways of PROVIDENCE. Of both, like the late Queen of Pruſſia on her death-bed, as related by her Royal Deſcendant^* before his acquaintance with Voltaire, the Editor hopes ere long to know more.

Perhaps two ſincerer, more diſintereſted patriots, have not exiſted in any country, at any time, than Biſhop Berke⯑ley and his ſon Dr. Berkeley, both very great politicians. The Biſhop publicly, his ſon more quietly, frequently ſuggeſted hints to the miniſter for the time being, for the benefit of the country, ſome of which he had the pleaſure of ſeeing were attended to, although the let⯑ters, when the advice was thus conveyed, were generally anonymous, he uſing to ſay, ‘"If the advice is wiſe, a man of ſenſe will attend to it, come how it may;"’ adding, ‘"I write frequently to Mr. Pitt, and ſometimes ſend him a meſſage."’ Dr. Berkeley ſuggeſted, and it was attended to, ſome additional benefit for the poor common ſoldiers. The Editor is no politician—not that ſhe does not eſteem females equal to politics. Sir Robert Walpole uſed to ſay, that an old friend of the Editor's Father, Mrs. Waller, of Hall-Barn, near Beaconsfield, grandmother of the pre⯑ſent [ccccxliv] Mr. Waller, ‘"underſtood the intereſts of this nation better than any man in it."’ Mrs. Waller, a daughter of old Aiſlabie's, had a very ſuperior underſtanding.

Dr. Berkeley was univerſally admired as a letter-wri⯑ter; he wrote ſuch ^* numbers ſo alertly for his friends and [cccclxv] common acquaintances to ſerve them: indeed the chief buſineſs of the trio, Father, Son, and Grandſon, ſeemed to be, to aſſiſt, ſerve, and benefit every one but themſelves.

It is ſuppoſed, by many that knew him through life, in early life, and until nearly the lateſt period of life, that Dr. Berkeley had, by his advice, direction, and aſſiſtance, made the fortunes of more men, than any private perſon, not in ſtation to do it, than any man in the three king⯑doms, ſo as ſometimes to occaſion Mrs. Berkeley to ſay to him, ‘"My dear friend, you can make every man's fortune, or put him in train to do it himſelf, but your ſon's: why do you not try to get ſome appointment for him, to help him, until he can, at leaſt will help himſelf, by going to the Bar?"’ His conſtant reply was, ‘"Alas! no, poor fellow; I cannot aſk any thing for him, or for myſelf. He muſt make his own fortune for me. God may raiſe him ſome friends."’

[cccclxvi] Mr. Monck Berkeley, by his Mother's earneſt advice to him in youth, never meddled with politics; ſhe always telling him, it was time enough if ever he ſhould be in a ſtation to require it. How many creatures ſtamp them⯑ſelves for fools, by bawling for or againſt a party, when they have hardly left bawling for a good whipping!

A gentleman, many years ago, ſaid to the Editor, ‘"What a man Dr. Berkeley is!"’ The day before yeſ⯑terday, at [...], ſome public dinner, it was ſaid, that an officer, one of the company, was going to Ireland. Some one aſked, ‘"if he had many acquaintances in that king⯑dom."’—‘"Not one."’—Dr. Berkeley politely aſked, ‘"in what part the Colonel's regiment was quartered?"’ and then ſaid, ‘"I will do myſelf the pleaſure of giving you two letters, Sir, that perhaps may be of ſome little ſer⯑vice to you, although they are very hoſpitable in Ireland."’ He called for pen, ink, and paper, twirled his chair round to a ſmall table, and in, I think, little more than five mi⯑nutes, produced two ſuch letters to the Colonel, (we all talking and babbling the whole time,) as I am ſure I could not have written in five hours. ‘"My G-d! what a clever fellow he is!"’

Mrs. Frinſham ſometimes, when going into the library, and ſeeing half a ſcore letters lying on the table, would ſay, ‘"Well, well! what a pity it was your father did not put [cccclxvii] you 'prentice to be Secretary of State. You would have ſcribbled away ſo finely to all the princes and potentates, that it would have done their hearts good to read your epiſtles."’ To which, as when many perſons have ſaid, ‘"How re⯑markably Dr. Berkeley's talents ſeem calculated for the diplomatic line!"’—‘"My dear Donna Anna, (Mrs. Frin⯑ſham's nick-name amongſt her intimate friends,) I would not have been put 'prentice to any thing but a clergyman, no, not if at twenty-two and an half I had received a re⯑velation from Heaven, that I never ſhould have had any thing more than a curacy of forty pounds a year through life."’

Not many days before Dr. Berkeley's lamented death, the Editor conſoling him with the delightful thought, that he had been a moſt zealous preacher of Chriſt, not elegant MORAL eſſays from Plutarch or Seneca; he lifted up his ſtill ex⯑quiſitely fine eyes on her, and replied, ‘"I have, my dear, and HE knows I preached him in SINCERITY. You know I always dreaded being a popular preacher. I never wiſhed to pleaſe men from the pulpit."’

Biſhop Berkeley and his grandſon both aſſumed an additional motto of their own chooſing, as did Mr. Cherry—‘"CONSCIENTIA MILLE TESTES."’ Dr. Berkeley contented himſelf with the beautiful bleſſed one of his anceſ⯑tors, ‘"DIEU AVEC NOUS."’ The Biſhop's was, ‘"NON [cccclxviii] SIBI, SED TOTI."’ Mr. Monck Berkeley's, aſſumed by him when he was about or rather under twenty, on an al⯑moſt miraculous preſervation of the life of himſelf, two other gentlemen, his intimate friends, ſtill living, and their poſtillion and horſes, ‘"VIVAT POST FUNERA VIRTUS;"’ which he engraved in the ſtrings of his creſt, as is ſeen in the print prefixed to the Poems. That Mr. Berkeley, from his cradle, or rather no cradle, as has been before ſtated, to his coffin, had numerous hair-breadth eſcapes from death, has been mentioned. Some time after his death two very extraordinary things occurred, which will not be here related; one very ſoon after his interment, to an entire ſtranger to every thing but his name, having never even ſeen him; the other to his Mother, about five months after his deceaſe.

The Editor again begs pardon for treſpaſſing ſo long on the public; and wiſhes that ſhe reſembled her excellent Son in many inſtances, particularly in burning without mercy, not, as he did, whole quires at a time of beautiful Eſſays, Poems, &c. for in early youth her manuſcripts conſiſted only of innumerable letters to friends, which ſhe truſts they conſigned to the flames, and a diary of her own very unimportant life, from the age of ſeventeen, when, being a very early riſer in ſummer, and her mother never coming out of her cloſet to breakfaſt until ten o'clock; for the family prayers at Mr. Frinſham's were (the Editor [cccclxix] thinks very inconveniently) not offered up until after break⯑faſt, when trades-people are coming, and the door muſt be anſwered, in private families—excepting at the houſe of the late excellent Mr. and Mrs. Peirce, of Windſor Foreſt, who, either in town or country, never ſuffered even the kitchen-maid, or groom, to anſwer the door until prayers, leſſons, and pſalms, were gone through. At Lambeth Palace, during Archbiſhop Secker's life, every ſervant, in⯑cluding the porter, went into the chapel at nine in the morning. Dr. Berkeley and the Editor, when reſident at Acton, were one morning a very few minutes too late—the footman diſmounted, and knocked violently—Dr. Berkeley aſſured him it was in vain; ſo the glaſſes were drawn up, and in about half an hour the gates were opened. The Editor, on her marriage, found the cuſtom at Dr. Berkeley's much better, that of aſſembling before breakfaſt, at nine o'clock, perhaps not always quite ſo punctually to a minute; as did, for more than half a century, the pious mother of that juſt Judge Sir W. H. Aſhhurſt. What a bleſſing to individuals, ſometimes to thouſands, is a wiſe, pious mother!

The Editor has frequently heard her mother ſay, ‘"that the mother of Judge Buller, although the daughter of Biſhop Trelawny, was an angel on earth"’—ſhe has been one in heaven almoſt half a century. The late worthy, charitable Marchioneſs of Abercorn was a grand-daughter [cccclxx] of this lady. The poor lamented bitterly at the death of both theſe ladies.

The Editor's idea is, perhaps, in moſt things, an almoſt univerſal one, to take moſt care of the moſt valuable things. She takes more care of a little fine Dreſden china, than ſhe does of her milk-pans; and, as ſhe uſed frequently to tell her dear, amiable, old friend the late Lord [...], when he uſed to tell her, ‘"that ſhe took too much care of her ſoul, going to church on week-days and Sunday after⯑noons; that it were better to ſtay and chat with her friends."’ Her conſtant reply was, ‘"This little, inſigni⯑ficant frame of mine muſt be laid in the duſt one day or other, ſooner or later; but the little ſpark within muſt exiſt FOR EVER: therefore I muſt take ſome little care about it, ſay what you will; and if I cannot make you take a little more care of the ſpark that animates your noble caſe, why hereafter I ſhall be noble, and you ignoble."’ Alas! dear amiable friend, my mind cannot follow thee with delight be⯑yond thy grave, but leave thee in the hands of HIM that ‘"judgeth right."’ Thou certainly wert not of the number of thoſe to whom the Pſalmiſt prays God ‘"not to be mer⯑ciful;"’ for thou didſt NOT ‘"offend of malicious wickedneſs."’ Thou wert neither profane, Deiſt, nor Arian. Thou hadſt a ſimple, ignorant, thoughtleſs mother, and no father from five years old.

[cccclxxi] If the Editor, by any thing contained in theſe ſheets, ſhould induce any, in a certain rank of life, of her fair (ſhe corrects herſelf, ſhe means her RED countrywomen, for al⯑moſt all are now become ROUGE DRAGONS,) to attend a little to the education of their children, and not devolve that very very important charge upon, in general, a poor, ignorant, low-lived, foreign animal, with no other recom⯑mendation than that ſhe cannot ſpeak Engliſh—

It has been of late years much the faſhion to decry ſchools for girls. The Editor, (notwithſtanding the wiſh of her amiable friend Lord Lyttelton, that ſhe might have ‘"half a dozen girls to educate,"’) having neither daughter nor niece, and not very intimate with many of her kindred that have girls, knows little of ſchools; but thus much ſhe knows of Swiſs and French governeſſes, that the ſchools muſt be bad indeed, if not better than theſe gouvernantes.

The Swiſs gouvernante at Lord [...]'s uſed regularly, when Lady [...] was in the country, and gone viſiting, to take the young ladies in the evening, to viſit, and drink hot elder wine, with the huckſters, the bakers, the butchers wives of the neighbouring village, and ſometimes to drink tea, &c. with ſome of her more diſtant friends, the farmers' ladies. This the Editor knows from ocular demonſtration. The follow⯑ing [cccclxxii] fact was many years ago related with horror to the Editor by Lady P [...]:

Going one morning in town to call on her couſin-ger⯑man, the late Lady [...], who not being up, ſent her little girl, aged eight years, to entertain her; the young lady ſoon began ſuch a converſation as was terrifying. On being aſked, ‘"what could make her talk thus?"’

Young Lady.—‘"Why, to make you laugh."’

Lady P [...].—‘"Make me laugh, child! Why, I am ready to run up the chimney, I am ſo frightened to hear you. Whom have you ever heard talk ſo? tell me directly, or I will tell your Mamma."’

Young Lady.—‘"Why Mademoiſelle, and Papa's Gen⯑tleman; and they do laugh ſo at it, that I thought it would make you laugh."’

This ill-fated, ill-educated young Lady, when com⯑pletely educated, made Mamma weep, inſtead of Made⯑moiſelle laugh.

The unfortunate Lady [...], ſoon after ſhe married Lord [...], told ſeveral of her friends, ‘"that ſhe won⯑dered ſhe was not a ſtreet-walker, for that ſhe generally [cccclxxiii] ſpent every evening, whilſt the family were in town, in a night-cellar with her governeſs, when her careful mother thought her in bed."’

This unhappy woman has been long divorced, and is not re-married. She was ſome few years ago at a water-drinking place, no living ſoul noticing her, an object of great com⯑paſſion to the Editor, who, never doing any thing in haſte, was meditating on calling upon her; but a very few days ended thoſe charitable meditations; for her Ladyſhip, alas for her, poor creature! was ſoon exhibited leaning on the arm of an hoſtler. Ah me! her careleſs mother muſt one day meet this injured, caſt-off daughter, and hear her call aloud for vengeance on her horrid cruel negligence. What will ſhe then do!!!

A few years ago, a lady aſked the Editor, if ſhe was acquainted with Lady [...]. She anſwered, ‘"I have not that honour. I only know and revere, as all muſt do, her great worthineſs of character."’ The Lady re⯑plied, ‘"Alas-a-day! a friend of hers is almoſt frantic on her account. She has got a devil incarnate for governeſs to Lady Charlotte. It is certainly known that in her own country ſhe was an adultereſs, and, many aſſert, the murderer of her huſband; and ſhe is ſo artful, ſo in⯑ſinuating a creature, and has ſo wound herſelf in by her ſeeming worthineſs with Lady [...], that ſhe will not [cccclxxiv] believe a ſyllable againſt her, although ſhe has heard it from ſeveral of her friends; and, I think, you might perhaps find ſome method to convince Lady [...] what a wretch ſhe is."’ The Editor aſſured Lady [...] that ſhe was unequal to the taſk; it muſt, for her, be left to God. Probably his mercy kept the wretch's maſk on; for Lady Charlotte has been married ſeveral years, and the Editor has not ſeen her name in the newſpapers, as being handed up to Doctors Commons. May ſhe never carry any griſt to that mill, not for grinding old women young, but reducing young women to a worſe condition than even old ones!

Does not the Almighty exclaim, by the Prophet Jere⯑miah, ‘"Shall not my ſoul be avenged on ſuch a nation as this^*?"’ The Almighty does not expreſsly confine that TREMENDOUS threat of His being avenged to the Jewiſh nation, but on any which is guilty of that dreadful crime, placed ſecond to murder in the Decalogue, written by the finger of GOD himſelf on Mount Sinai. It would ex⯑ceedingly delight the Editor, if ſhe thought that any of the fine ladies and fine gentlemen, deſcribed in the firſt ten verſes of the fifth chapter of the Prophecy, of Jeremiah, who may chance to read this whilſt their hair is dreſſing, may be benefited by it; it being cuſtomary with many [cccclxxv] people to read ſome trumpery book at that time; the Editor generally reads in an old thumbed Bible, for the powder and pomatum would ſpoil a good one, to her maid, which, ſhe hopes, benefits both parties; ſhe means it ſhould, as ſhe explains as ſhe reads, or rather when ſhe is requeſted to lay down the book, becauſe, while the frizzing, &c. is performing, the reading cannot go on, eſpecially as the Editor is ſhort-ſighted.

It is now and then ſome conſolation to the Editor, (who hopes theſe nations may be ſpared from French brutality a little longer, at leaſt till ſhe has made her exit,) when ſhe hears theſe lamentable divorce bills ſued for, that ſhe recollects that, at the time of publiſhing a magnificent edi⯑tion of the works of that patron of ADULTERY, that vile inciter to it, that MONSTER Voltaire, it was ſaid, ‘"every CHRISTIAN Prince in Europe had ſubſcribed to it, but the King of England."’ The Editor very well remembers her beloved Partner's comment on it, ‘"I am ſure HE has ſhewn himſelf a Chriſtian by not doing it, and God will re⯑ward him for it^*."’

[cccclxxvi] The old Prophet Jeremiah would be a very excellent tutor to many very fine people of both ſexes, as the third chapter of Iſaiah would to many of the quondam fair (now RED) ſex. The Editor recollects that there is a text in her old-faſhioned book, a kind of THREAT to ladies: ‘"thou rendeſt thy face with PAINTING."’—It is, we ſee, ſo very old-faſhioned, one wonders that fine ton ladies practiſe it. The poor old immenſely vulgar Editor does honeſtly own, it ever did, ever muſt, whilſt ſhe retains her ſenſes, occaſion her not reſpecting, although ſhe loves, ſome who do it.

As the Editor is writing this, her ſiſter is reading to her the direful cataſtrophe of Lord C [...] T [...]. About three years ago, the Editor was told by her friends, that ſhe ought to write a Preface to her dear Son's Poems; when ſhe deter⯑mined to give the opinion of two wiſe men, and her own, al⯑though an imbecile female, of a book which Dr. Berkeley declared he eſteemed to be the firſt, the beſt, work of this century. Mr. Monck Berkeley ſaid, that if young men of ſenſe [cccclxxvii] would read it only curſorily, that it muſt prevent their gambling. The Editor, charmed with it on reading only thirty-five pages of the firſt volume, then at Canterbury, laid it down, put on her hat and cloak, and poſted off into the city, to the bookſeller's, to ſubſcribe, for herſelf,—her ſiſter, then at her own abode,—and her Son, then abroad. Mrs. Berkeley, ever delighting to benefit her fellow creatures, in her very narrow ſphere, did many of her friends the kindneſs to compel them to ſubſcribe to "A Treatiſe on SUICIDE, GAMING, and DUELLING, by the Reverend Charles Moore, of Boughton Blean, Kent." The Editor uſed con⯑ſtantly, when ſoliciting ſubſcriptions, after the publication of the firſt incomparable volume, to ſay, ‘"It is for your own ſake, not Mr. Moore's, although he is a very old ac⯑quaintance, a very highly reſpected friend."’ On Dr. Berkeley's going to Cookham in the ſummer, Mrs. Berkeley invited ſeveral of her Berkſhire friends and neighbours to ſubſcribe. Among theſe was her very worthy reſpected neighbour Lady Y [...], who replied, ‘"Oh! my dear Mrs. Berkeley, I can't afford it."’ ‘"Can't afford it! Poor ſoul! Shall I lend you a Guinea?—Why, I did not bring my huſband quite fourſcore thouſand pounds, and yet I have afforded it, who laid it down as a rule, ſince I had children, never to buy a book but at a ſtall. I do not think my friend Sir George will either thraſh or ſcold you."’—‘"No, no; but I can't afford it."’ Mrs. Berkeley declared ſhe would not lend it her, unleſs ſhe [cccclxxviii] would ſubſcribe; another neighbour did, as the ſequel of the little tale will ſhew. Two or three evenings after Mrs. Berkeley called on Lady Y [...], to aſk if ſhe would take a walk with her, to view the progreſs of her Ladyſhip's caſ⯑tle of [...], then building. On the ſervant's an⯑nouncing Mrs. Berkeley, her Ladyſhip ſprang from the ſo⯑pha, exclaiming, ‘"My dear Madam, I am ſo happy to ſee you, you cannot imagine. I have been this hour deter⯑mining every minute to go to you, to aſk if I am too late to ſubſcribe to Mr. Moore. It is ſurely the moſt ex⯑cellent book I have redde a long time. Do pray take my Guinea"—(all that Mr. Moore would ſuffer to be paid for thoſe two excellent volumes in quarto.)—"I was not able to quit it; and luckily you are come!"’

The Editor would not take this Lady's ſubſcription; for ſhe never receives any money but what is her own due, leſt, as ſhe tells her friends, as we ſay in Scotland, ‘"She is not o'er rich,"’ ſhe ſhould forget, and ſpend it on herſelf; to prevent which, when compelled to be treaſurer for any friend for a few weeks, ſhe always ſeals it up, and writes on it to whom it belongs. She, however, promiſed to write directly to her worthy old acquaintance, Mr. Rivington, to learn about the matter; and the name of POOR Lady Y [...] appears in the additional liſt of ſubſcribers.

[cccclxxix] Some time afterwards this worthy friend of the Editor, at her requeſt, procured a very advantageous appointment in the army in India for the eldeſt ſon of Mr. Moore, who, although a very excellent ſcholar, as Dr. Berkeley told the Editor, was reſolved to be a warrior; and we had then happy days^*, no war of our own in Europe. Mr. Moore and his Lady, and, the Editor dares believe, the young gentle⯑man, felt great gratitude to good Lady Y [...], for exerting her influence with her brother-in-law, Sir J [...] C [...]. The Editor wiſhes that, for the benefit of ſociety, Mr Moore would put forth an edition in half-crown numbers. There are anecdotes enough to furniſh a fine print for every num⯑ber; for, as Mr. Monck Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"it is as en⯑tertaining as a novel, with this difference, that the facts are real, and as pious as Thomas à Kempis."’ Thouſands would then read and profit by it, who otherwiſe will never hear of it.

Biſhop Berkeley uſed to ſay, ‘"If I had the voice of Sten⯑tor, I would become hoarſe in calling on all, particularly on perſons of high rank, Take care of the education of your children."’ If my Lord M [...]s has done ſo, he may [cccclxxx] meet his children in a more auguſt court than that of St. James's without horror^*; "if not, perhaps it might be wiſe in him to place himſelf in the ſituation, before the throne of mercy, in which, thirty-ſix years ago, in the ſummer of 1760, he thought proper to place Mr. C [...], a very reſpectable Glouceſterſhire gentleman, at the Swan Inn at Cheltenham, on both his knees, begging this GREAT man's pardon; not only all the gentlemen who dined there witneſſing it, but all the town, the ſaſhes being up, ſtanding on each others' ſhoulders, to behold ſo wonderfully NOBLE a conduct.

At the time when this circumſtance happened, the Edi⯑tor and her ſiſter were returning, from drinking tea at the rooms, to their lodgings below the Swan Inn, ſuch a crowd none could paſs; after waiting ſome time, they deſired their footman to puſh through, and learn what occaſioned this violent concourſe. After ſome time, the ſervant returned (he was a very worthy Glouceſterſhire man, ſo knew Mr. C [...]) ſaying, ‘"Oh, Madam! it is young Mr. C [...], upon his knees, begging pardon of an Officer."’

Both the Miſs Frinſhams at the ſame inſtant.—‘"Upon his knees?"’

[cccclxxxi]Servant.—‘"Yes, Madam; and he is making a long ſpeech; and all the gentlemen are ſtanding round them, looking very grave."’

The next morning the walks echoed with this wonderful tranſaction.

Three of the Editor's old, intimate friends, the late Sir William and Sir Septimius (then Colonel) Robinſon, and the ſenſible, worthy Philip Sharpe, Eſquire, Clerk of the Privy Council, lamented over Mr. C [...]'s having unluckily ſaid, ‘"that he underſtood not the uſe of the ſword, could not fight;"’ that declaration, all preſent agreed, produced the genuflexion. Cheltenham rang with this NOBLE deed during the ſeaſon. It determined the Editor, then a young ſingle woman, that if ever ſhe did marry, and ſhould produce a ſon, he ſhould learn to uſe a ſword, although ſhe truſted he might never meet with a ſon of the noble M [...], never draw it in any private quarrel.

Mr. Monck Berkeley had the honour, the pleaſure, to be well known to the ‘"ſweet, amiable Lord L [...],"’ eldeſt ſon of the M [...], as he termed him, on the Editor's aſking, in her wonted way, ‘"What is he or ſhe like?"’ It may be hoped, this dire calamity may bring this NOBLE M [...] on his knees.

[cccclxxxii] The idea of a nobleman or gentleman upon their knees to any BUT God, brings to the Editor's mind a circumſtance of a noble Duke upon his knees (not to beg pardon), re⯑peatedly related to her by her Mother.

It has been mentioned before, that the great controver⯑ſial writer, Charles Leſlie, great-grandſon of the excellent Biſhop of Rothes, the only Scotch friend of the unfortunate Queen Mary, as good Sir Nicholas Throcmorton was her only Engliſh one, ſpent much time at Mr. Cherry's^*, where ſhe had often heard the following little anecdote related by Mr. Leſlie; as the origin of Mr. Leſlie's ‘"FOUR SHORT MARKS"’ to aſcertain the truth of hiſtoric facts re⯑lated [cccclxxxiii] as having paſt long ſince; and which, the Editor has repeatedly heard from many learned men, coſt the late Dr. Conyers Middleton twenty years' trying, but all in vain, to refute.

An excellent lady, a friend of Mr. Cherry, was very inti⯑mate with the then Duke of Leeds, who was a Deiſt. They often diſputed on the ſubject. The lady happened one day to lament that, although the Duke would never per⯑vert her to Deiſm, ſhe ſhould never be able to convert him to Chriſtianity, for he took all her arguments to pieces. In ſhort, his Grace was a better logician than the lady, who ſaid, ‘"Now, if Mr. Leſlie would teach me ſome arguments, I could urge them, and perhaps reſcue my noble friend from his ſad error."’ Mr. Leſlie replied, ‘"I will endea⯑vour to furniſh you with ſome arguments, that, if his Grace has an honeſt mind, will convince him of the truth of Revelation."’ Accordingly, the four marks were given to her, and ſhe ſoon produced them to her noble friend.

The next morning, as early as it was proper to ſend to a fine lady, perhaps rather earlier at the end of the ſeventeenth than at the cloſe of the eighteenth century, the Duke ſent to requeſt that the lady would have the goodneſs to deſire the gentleman who had written that paper to viſit him with her. On Mr. Leſlie's entering the apartment the [cccclxxxiv] Duke went towards him, and, like Cornelius to Saint Peter^*, fell on his knees, burſt into tears, thanked him, and beſought him to pray to God to forgive the having lived ſo long in ignorance and error; ſaid that he had ſat up the whole night, reading it over and over, impa⯑tient for the arrival of the morning, to ſee and bleſs the hand that had reſcued him from eternal miſery.

Whoever has as honeſt a mind as this wiſe excellent Duke, may read theſe FOUR MARKS, almoſt verbatim, tran⯑ſcribed by the pious Mr. Nelſon, in the Monday and Tueſday in Whitſun-Week, in his "Feaſts and Faſts." The very learned late Reverend Meredith Jones, Rector of Gueſtling, Prebendary of Chicheſter, Chaplain to the preſent Biſhop of Chicheſter, in a moſt incomparable work of his, written when a young man, without his name, and printed for B. White in 1758, ſays, ‘"I defy any honeſt Arian not to be convinced by the proofs here produced."’ The book is almoſt as ſcarce as it is excellent. It proves that the filiation of the SAVIOUR of the WORLD did not commence until after the angel Gabriel had been ſent to the Bleſſed Virgin. The excellent and very deeply learned Mr. Romaine ſays, that the diſtinction in the Trinity, of Father, Son, and Holy Ghoſt, are only office names; for he was old-faſhioned enough to believe that, in this Trinity, none was [cccclxxxv] greater or leſs than another, &c. (See the Anathaſian Creed^*. The very learned Mr. Hawtry has lately publiſhed a ſimilar work for very learned perſons. Few females of the Editor's acquaintance, excepting her two old friends and nameſakes Meſdames Eliza Carter and Eliza Lawrence—the latter ſtyled by Dr. Johnſon ‘"The Engliſh Sappho"’—are, perhaps, qualified to underſtand all its merits. Probably not the learned Miſs [...], (of whom the Editor has heard her ſon ſpeak,) who have a little Greek, ‘"a little learning is a dangerous thing,"’ would always call the Roman orator Kickero.—A boy ſhould have received a kick for ſuch folly. Mr. Monck Berkeley deteſted every kind of affection as much as his Mother. He delighted much in the converſa⯑tion of the two above-named, uncommonly ſenſible, as well as very learned ladies. The Editor has frequently heard Dr. Berkeley ſay, he would prefer, were he to publiſh a Greek work, the criticiſm of Miſs Eliza Lawrence, now [cccclxxxvi] Lady of the member for Canterbury, to moſt men he knew. Theſe two really learned ladies are alſo two of the beſt houſewives that the Editor knows.—She thinks that, in that abſolutely neceſſary knowledge, both theſe learned ladies equal her ignorant ſelf!!!

The title of Mr. Meredith Jones's work is, "The Doctrine of the TRINITY, as it ſtands deduced by the Light of REASON, from the DATA laid down in the SCRIPTURES; to which are added, ſome Remarks on the ARIAN CON⯑TROVERSY; alſo a POSTSCRIPT, containing ſome Obſerva⯑tions on the Writings of Juſtin Martyr and Irenaeus."

The Editor truſts, for her own ſake, as well as that of others, that ſhe draws near a concluſion of this very long Preface, not quite unexampled; for one of the acuteſt wri⯑ters of the latter end of the laſt century, that wonderful genius Charles Leſlie, in his incomparable book, intituled, "THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS^*, has made his preface con⯑ſiderably [cccclxxxvii] longer than the Work itſelf. The Editor is con⯑ſcious that ſhe ought hardly to preſume to write her name in the ſame paragraph with that great man; yet is certain that ſhe has the happineſs to reſemble him in one thing—a moſt ardent wiſh to advance the glory of GOD and the ſalvation of ſouls. She hopes for pardon, at leaſt from thoſe ‘"who never give themſelves the time or trouble to conſider whe⯑ther they have ſouls to be ſaved or not."’

A young man, now no longer an inhabitant of this ſublu⯑nary world, on being one day aſked if a friend of his had any religion, replied, ‘"Of all the young men of my acquaintance, I do not in my conſcience believe that, excepting [...] and [...], there is one that ever gives himſelf the time or trouble to think whether he has a ſoul to be ſaved!"’ Every one has redde the requeſt of a pious dying father to a thoughtleſs diſſipated ſon—to retire for one half hour every day into a room, without either pen, ink, or book. We are told it had the deſired effect—he was COMPELLED to THINK.

The Editor being old-faſhioned, and vulgar enough to believe a future ſtate of rewards and puniſhments, and wonderfully addicted, when ſhe loſes a friend or an ac⯑quaintance, in idea to follow them over ‘"the dark irremiable flood,"’ the river of death, and to rejoice that, ‘"whether they would hear, or whether they would forbear"’—for [cccclxxxviii] the generality are moſt ‘"thoughtleſs,"’ that ſhe has ſuggeſted to them, that it might be wiſe to think a little about it now and then, leſt, like the wretched Lord Cheſterfield, they ſhould, when too late, experience what he certainly ſaid, ‘"If I believed one word of the Bible, I would live like [...] [...]."’ And ſome years after, not long before his death, ‘"I have a frightful long journey to take in the dark, and I do not know one ſtep of the way."’ Could one of thoſe friends return to earth, how would they reproach thoſe who forbore to warn them to flee to the only TRUE con⯑ſolation in TIME, and through the countleſs NEVER-ending ages of ETERNITY.

The Editor, ever addicted to ſcribbling, to compoſing—for ſhe amuſed herſelf with writing two ſermons at eleven years old—has long been in the habit of compoſing prayers for her own ſole uſe, not for her own ſole benefit—takes leave here to ſubjoin a part of one uſed by her every morn⯑ing, as ſoon as ſhe opens her eyes, and, to her wonder, finds herſelf an inhabitant of this thorny wilderneſs.

‘"* * * * * Grant, I earneſtly beſeech thee, O my God! that I may not paſs this day, or any ſucceeding one of my life, without doing ſome good to the ſouls, bodies, or fortunes, particularly the ſouls, of my relations, friends, benefactors, ſervants, neighbours, and acquaintance, or thoſe that I may [cccclxxxix] chance to meet with; and this I beg, for the merits, death, and paſſion's ſake of Him who went about doing good to all—who died for all who truly call on him—Jeſus Chriſt the Righteous."’ The Editor daily uſes the very ſhort beau⯑tiful prayer of ARMINE NICHOL, the famous pious German maid ſervant, now as much higher, as ſhe was here holier, than, perhaps, any of her contemporary Princeſſes of the whole Germanic body. That every one who reads this may profit by it, is the ardent wiſh of the Editor, Eliza Berkeley.

Of Mr. Monck Berkeley's genius many of thoſe who read what he has written may be competent judges. To attempt to do juſtice to the exquiſite amiability, generoſity, and nobleneſs of his heart, the wonderful ſtrength and ſound⯑neſs of his judgement, the brilliancy of his imagination and ready wit, his wonderful wilfulneſs in youth, the great ſteadineſs of his temper, and the exquiſite lovelineſs of his nature, even in very early youth, would fill a ſmall volume, which would be an entertaining one, and would require the knowledge of the Writer of this Preface, and the pen of his favourite Dr. Johnſon.

Mr. Berkeley, like the excellent, Honourable Captain Hamilton, of the Lancaſter man of war, father of the Marquis of Abercorn, never could behold a cloud of diſtreſs on any brow, even on that of a perfect ſtranger, without [ccccxc] not only wiſhing, but even endeavouring, to remedy or alleviate their ſorrows, in which they both often ſucceeded with high and low; many curious inſtances of which might be related.

Of the excellent, amiable Captain Hamilton, the Editor has frequently heard his very worthy brother, the Ho⯑nourable and Reverend Mr. Hamilton, Canon of Windſor, relate the following ſtory, which ſhall be given in his own words.

‘"My brother was going one day from town, to dine with ſeveral of his friends at Lord [...]'s (name forgotten by the Editor). It was at the time when Weſtminſter Bridge was either building or repairing. Captain Hamil⯑ton got into the great ferry-boat; after having ſeated himſelf, he obſerved a middle-aged farmer-like man ſitting with his arms folded, regardleſs of all that paſſed; no one, perhaps, but my excellent brother would have thought of enquiring into the cauſe. He ſpoke to him two or three times. His anſwers were as laconic as might conſiſt with civility. This only ſerved to convince my brother that the man was under ſome diſtreſs, which it was poſſible he might alleviate, if he could but find it out. Ac⯑cordingly he requeſted one of the paſſengers to exchange ſeats with him. He now placed himſelf cloſe to the poor man, and ſaid, 'My friend, you ſeem unhappy."’

[ccccxci]Farmer.—‘"Yes, Sir, I am ſo.’

Capt. H.—‘"Can I do any thing to relieve you?’

Farmer.—‘"No, Sir, I thank you.’

Capt. H.—‘"Do, my poor friend, tell me your diſtreſs; perhaps I may be able to aſſiſt you.’

Farmer.—‘"No, Sir, you cannot."’

‘"Nobody but my brother would, after this, have perſe⯑vered. He intreated the man to tell him the cauſe of his diſtreſs; who began thus:’

The angelic-hearted Captain Hamilton left his party to dine without him, and joined them not until the next day. It is almoſt ſuperfluous to add, that, whilſt he reſided at Bear-hill Houſe in Berkſhire, he was the idol of all his neighbours, high and low.—He enjoyed the ‘"Peace of God,"’ which made him ever chearful, and he had wonderful good-will towards man. An attempt to de⯑ſcribe the ſincere lamentations at his early (one muſt not preſume to add untimely) death^* would be as vain as fruitleſs.

[ccccxciv] This excellent man lived to Chriſt, was owned by him in death, and is now rejoicing with him in glory. Captain Hamilton was convinced, that not every one that ſaith, ‘"Lord, Lord!"’ ſhall enter into the kingdom of Heaven. He acted, as well as talked, like a Chriſtian, having con⯑ſtantly prayers twice every day on-board his ſhip; and, when on land, his family was conſtantly aſſembled as often. An eminent Divine ſays, although Adam's ſin does, yet grace does not, run in the veins. Captain Hamilton's mother was NOT a ſaint, i. e. ſancta, like himſelf!!!

Mr. Berkeley's mind, from the time he could articulate, appeared to be of ſo very extraordinary and ſingular a turn, as determined his Mother to watch over him with the utmoſt vigilance, during the time that, to uſe the language of the wiſe Lord Halifax, in his Advice to his Daughter, ‘"We are entirely under your government, and indeed through life you have ſo much influence over us, that it behoves us to take the greateſt care that you (females) are well educated."’

Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, uſed frequently to ſay, ‘"Let a man commit whatever he can, except the not being [ccccxcv] a good Greek or Latin ſcholar, my Mother conſtantly ſays, That was his Mother's fault, poor young man!"’

Mrs. Berkeley as conſtantly charged the improper beha⯑viour of young ladies on the father, if he was a man who had lived in the world. It would be cruel to charge it on a man entirely devoted to ſtudy; but there are few ſuch now amongſt perſons of a certain rank in ſociety.

Mrs. Berkeley, from long obſervation, ſaw how naturally youths are attached to the mother, and girls to the father. The reaſon is obvious. The mother is not finding fault with her Son's ſlovenly Latin and Greek exerciſes; nor the father of the young lady's monkey-tricks, when ſhe ſhould be learning Hiſtory, Geography, Drawing, Muſic, &c. ſo much as often to occaſion the late excellent Lady P [...], the boſom-friend from early infancy of the Editor, to ſay ‘"It was impoſſible that children, particularly girls, ſhould love a mother that did her duty as ſhe ought by them."’ She, as her friend always aſſured her ſhe would, expe⯑rienced the contrary. Her children, when they grew up, were lovely, and loved her much. She was indeed lovely; ſhe has frequently wept with vexation, that ſhe had not the clam, not to be ſhaken, ſteadineſs of mr. Berkeley's mo⯑ther. It was perhaps, according to the old French pro⯑verb, ‘"Dieu donne la robe ſelon le froid."’ Mr. Berkeley's maternal grandfather, with the ſame lovely nature as Mr. [ccccxcvi] Berkeley had, when a child of only four years and an half old, on his father's whipping him the third time for wil⯑fulneſs, reſolved, as the Writer of this Preface has often heard him ſay, to tire his father out; and he thought that about ſeven or eight times would do it. Luckily for him his mother intreated his father to give it up: to which he replied, ‘"No; I will whip him till to-morrow morn⯑ing, rather than let him get the better of me."’ THAT he thought would be rather too long; ſo inſtantly ſub⯑mitted.

It was really entertaining to hear from Mr. Berkeley, when grown up, his wonderfully deep-laid ſchemes to conquer his Mother; but he uſed to add, ‘"I never did once ſucceed; yet ſtill I perſevered, till reaſon, pretty early in life, convinced me of my folly."’ He would fre⯑quently exclaim, ‘"Oh! the Wiſe King was inſpired, when he gave his leſſons for education in the book of Proverbs; and, bleſſed be God, MY Mother had the ſenſe to make his directions the rule of her conduct. God knows what would have become of me by the time I had been ten years old, with my ſort of ſpirit and temper."’

From two years old until the laſt breath he drew, perhaps no one ever loved a Mother with ſuch exquiſite tenderneſs as Mr. Berkeley; of which a million of inſtances might be related. Mrs. Berkeley uſed often to ſay, on ſhewing any [ccccxcvii] curious thing preſented to her by Mr. Berkeley, ‘"I am perſuaded, if my Son viſited any odd place, where no⯑thing was to be procured but tanned bulls' hides, he would ſay, Pray pick out the very beſt, and ſend it di⯑rected to Mrs. Berkeley, the Oaks, Canterbury."’

Mr. Berkeley's gratitude to his Father was very great on ſeveral accounts, particularly on two. Mr. Berkeley from a child, and through life, was an enthuſiaſtic lover of muſic. Like moſt, he was exceedingly anxious to learn to play the violin, which his Father early, very wiſely, told him he never ſhould do; and Mr. Berkeley uſed always to ſay, ‘"He was ſure, had he learned, it would have been his deſtruction."’

In the early part of Mr. Berkeley's life, he played on the German flute; but an hereditary illneſs, the aſthma, at⯑tacked him at the age of about ſeventeen. The advice of the very judicious, worthy Dr. Biddle of Windſor, ſo entirely cured him, that he never had a ſecond ſerious attack. The Doctor ſaid, ‘"Mr. Berkeley was the youngeſt patient he ever attended in that frightful diſorder."’ He bade him lay aſide his German flute, and charged him never to give the view halloo. Mr. Berkeley at that time hunted re⯑gularly twice a week with the buck-hounds^*. He wiſely obeyed both injunctions.

[ccccxcviii] The father and mother of Biſhop Berkeley, although not at all related before their marriage (Mrs. Berkeley was aunt to old General Wolfe, father of the famous General of that name,) both died in the ſame week of the aſthma, and were interred at the ſame time in the ſame grave. They were a happy pair through life, and happy in not being divided in death. It cannot be ſaid, that they died an untimely death^†, both being near ninety. They lived to breed up ſix ſons, gentlemen^‡. They lived to ſee the eldeſt a Biſhop ſome years before their death—a Biſhop who did honour to epiſcopacy, by his learning, his munificence, his piety, his wonderfully well-judged charities.

[ccccxcix] The Sunday after the hard froſt ſet in, the Biſhop ap⯑peared at breakfaſt with his Cloyne-made wig. All the Bi⯑ſhop's own cloaths, as well as his liveries, were conſtantly made at the little village of Cloyne. He permitted his ſons to employ a Cork tailor. The Biſhop's wig was without a grain of powder. On his Lady's expreſſing her aſtoniſh⯑ment at his wonderful appearance, he replied, ‘"We ſhall ſoon have a famine; and I have expreſsly ordered, that none of the ſervants put any powder into their wigs, neither will I."’ The chaplain, ſecretary, and all, took the hint. A certain Biſhop, as ſoon as the tax was laid, took out a licence for three men, and his Lady's maid. Biſhop Berkeley, during the froſt and ſcarcity, gave, every Monday morning, twenty guineas to the poor.

Primate Boulter gave to the poor that winter ten thouſand pounds. The then Lord Biſhop of Cork, (Dr. Peter Brown^*, uncle to the late agreeable Archbiſhop of Tuam, and great uncle to the Editor's young—old friend Jemmet Brown, of Riverſtown in the county of Cork, who fre⯑quently ſpent his holydays when at Weſtminſter at Dr. Berkeley's,) a ſingle man, gave thirty pounds every week. One day the mayor, his almoner, came, when, the mo⯑ney being all gone, the good Prelate gave all his plate.

[d] The Biſhop of Cork was great uncle to the Reverend James Brown of Rivers Town, the preſent poſſeſſor of the fine ring, the only jewel which his truly honourable grand⯑ſire would accept from the Spaniſh lady, after Colonel Brown had ſaid,

To be ſure, Colonel Brown had ſome odd ideas, perhaps from his grandmother, from which moſt of our modern heroes are entirely free. As to the generality of our fair dames of theſe days, if they chance to meet with a humour⯑ſome or unkind huſband^*, they fly to an Officer of the [cli] Guards, inſtead of to ſome old reverend Divine, for counſel and conſolation, as our great-grandmothers were wont to do; for, to ſuppoſe that there were no unpleaſant huſbands in the laſt century, would be to ſuppoſe that miracles had not then ceaſed; but the beauteous young dames were then differently educated, and decently attired.

A few years ago, Mr. Brown taking his ring off to waſh his fingers after dinner, three ladies hid it from him. For three days he ſuppoſed it loſt, and was, as he well might, exceedingly diſtreſſed. They deſerved a trip at leaſt half way to Botany Bay for their cruelty; ſince which he has never worne it, but keeps the invaluable jewel locked up, and only ſhews it to thoſe friends who wiſh to ſee ſo noble, ſo honourable a curioſity.

In one of Mr. Berkeley's idle fits, he was wild to go into the Army, that he might take a handſome leave of Greek and Latin; and, by a noble connexion of his Father's, he had the offer of a Cornetcy in the Oxford Blues. This, at the age of fifteen, put him into an extacy; and he uſed all his eloquent rhetoric on his Father to obtain his per⯑miſſion; but, as he uſed to ſay, ‘"Happily in thoſe things [dii] my Father was as ſteady as my Mother in other reſpects where ſhe was concerned."’

Dr. Berkeley uſed to ſay to his Son, ‘"If, after you have left Eton, and ſpent four years at Oxford, you wiſh, as it is poſſible you may, to go into the army, you ſhall have my free conſent."’

Dr. Berkeley valued an Engliſh, i.e. not a foreign uni⯑verſity education, as highly as did the Editor from the age of fifteen. Nothing could have tempted her to marry a gentleman who had not paſſed ſome years either at Oxford, Cambridge, or Dublin. It certainly infuſes ſomething into the brains even of the moſt hair-brained youths that they very rarely get elſewhere. Several gentlemen of the different regiments of cavalry conſtantly quartered at Can⯑terbury had received that advantage; and Dr. Berkeley, who ſometimes dined at the meſs with his military ac⯑quaintance, at his return home uſed to ſay, ‘"I wonder all the young men, when they ſee the deference paid by the whole regiment to Captain or Major [...], do not uſe their time of abſence at the Univerſity."’

Mr. Berkeley, during his reſidence in Scotland, accepted a commiſſion in the Royal Edinburgh Volunteers, raiſed to quell ſome riots in the neighbourhood of that city; which occaſioned a gentleman's aſking him, ‘"if he had not ſome [diii] thoughts of going into the army."’ He replied, ‘"No, Sir, my Father's wiſdom kept me out when I was an idle boy, and my own will keep me out now that I am a man. Nothing but his Majeſty's erecting his ſtandard will ever make me a military man; in that caſe, I ſhould feel it my DUTY to repair to it."’

One trait more of Mr. Berkeley's ſingular temper ſhall ſuffice. Like all other children, he had been early told, that it was utterly impoſſible to form a ſyllable in any known language without the aid of at leaſt one vowel. It was Mrs. Berkeley's conſtant cuſtom to go every night, before ſhe ſat down to ſupper, to the rooms of her chil⯑dren (for ſhe never ſuffered them to ſleep together) to ſee if they lay ſtraight, and had cloſed their eyes before they went to ſleep, as many eyes are injured by ſleeping without this neceſſary care. One night, on entering Mr. Berkeley's room, ſhe ſaw his fine eyes rolling about, and began to give him a leſſon for not going to ſleep as ſoon as he went to bed, at ſeven. He replied, ‘"I cannot ſleep for think⯑ing"’—(the miſery of too many older perſons; it cer⯑tainly occaſioned the death of that wonderful genius, the late agreable, amiable, excellent Mr. Gainſborough, Diſ⯑ſenting Miniſter at Henley upon Thames, elder brother to the juſtly celebrated painter, Mr. Gainſborough of Bath; but it may be in general avoided by care;) as the Editor [div] knows by experience, and, when grown up a man, taught her Son—for which he bleſſed her ^*.

Mrs. B.—‘"How dared you ſet to thinking? What are you thinking on?"’

Mr. B.—‘"Why you have often told me, that it was impoſſible to form a ſyllable without a vowel; and there⯑fore I have long reſolved to do it, and to-night have been thinking till my head runs round; and I believe I have tried five hundred words, throwing out the vowels, but I have not yet compaſſed it."’

Before ſix years old he could ſpell every word in the Engliſh language without book, and before he had completed his eighth year knew how to introduce them with propriety when occaſion ſerved, which rendered his language re⯑markably elegant—not all mono- and diſ-ſyllables, as is often the caſe with children, inſomuch as to make the learned, accompliſhed Sir John Temple, of America, ſay, [dv] ‘"My nephew, at near ſixteen, a pretty good Latin and Greek ſcholar, can no more expreſs his ſentiments in the language of this little creature, than I could ſcale the ſkies;"’ adding, ‘"I ſhall watch him as he grows up; and farewell to my ſagacity if he does not make a moſt ex⯑traordinary man indeed."’ The worthy Sir John needs not bid adieu to that trait of his fine ſtrong underſtanding. The Editor has not heard of any of her beloved reſpected American friends for many years.

Mrs. George Berkeley, being little addicted to going from home, and Dr. Berkeley's hoſpitality very great, Mr. Monck Berkeley, when any of his ton friends or acquaint⯑ance were going to the Continent, Margate, Ramſgate, &c. &c. uſed to give them a letter of introduction to his Father, or his Mother, which occaſioned the latter to ſay, ‘"that ſhe was the good woman who kept the ſign of the Berkeley arms."’ This ſo tickled the fancy of Mr. Monck Berkeley, that the next time he viſited at home, he brought a print of Lord Berkeley's arms, framed and glazed.

The next day Mrs. Berkeley, paſſing through the hall, ſeeing ſomething that ſhe had not been accuſtomed to ſee, called to Mr. Wrightſon to know what it was. He replied, ‘"that Mr. Berkeley had ordered his man to hang it up^*."’

[dvi] Mrs. Berkeley, having recourſe to her glaſs, ſoon diſco⯑vered her Son's fun; and, on ſeeing him, told him, ‘"that his Father's ten croſſes had no right to ſupporters, except himſelf and his Mother, who ought to take care not to make the ten twelve; that, if he wiſhed for crowned ſupporters, he muſt begin to open his mouth in Weſt⯑minſter Hall^†."’

Mr. Berkeley conjured his Mother to let it hang up; to which ſhe conſented, on condition of its being removed from the hall into the anti-room leading to the eating-room in the Oaks.

The arms ſtill hang up—and if any of the Editor's old friends, Scotch or Engliſh, ſhould wiſh to breathe a little [dvii] of the ſoft air of Chertſey, and happen to recollect that ſhe lives at that beautiful town, and call, ſhe cannot, with truth, ſay, that ‘"Here is good entertainment for man and horſe;"’ but ſhe can, and does ſay, that there is hearty welcome to—if they are in luck—a ſlice of leg of mutton—if out of luck—haſhed mutton and a tart;—and, whilſt the Editor's now ſmall ſtock laſts, a bottle of good old port or ſherry; but, after her one glaſs per diem has exhauſted it, ſhe be⯑lieves they muſt bring their bottle under their arm, as the new wine-tax has quite ſcared her.

Mrs. Berkeley cannot pretend to aſſert, that the BERKELEY ARMS is the beſt inn at Chertſey; for the Swan, kept by the uncommonly ſenſible, clever Mrs. Daniel, mother of the Meſſrs. Daniel, who have lately publiſhed ſome fine things, which the Editor cannot afford to purchaſe, and if ſhe could, has not time to contemplate and admire, as ſhe hears all others do, certainly excells the BERKELEY ARMS at preſent, for the Editor conceives, that Mrs. Daniel, the poſt-miſtreſs here, could conduct a poſt^*, and pro⯑cure [dviii] a poſt-horn, the pleaſanteſt muſic imaginable, without ſending every letter to and from Staines. Some days there are more than fourſcore, as the Editor is in⯑formed.

Mrs. Berkeley one day received a letter from her Son, ſaying, ‘"that in about a fortnight ſhe would receive a viſit from the Princeſs de Lambelle, and that he was ſure ſhe would have pleaſure in making her Highneſs's few days ſéjour at Canterbury as agreeable as poſſible."’ In anſwer to which epiſtle, the Editor wrote as follows:

[dix] To which an immediate anſwer was returned, of the following purport:

‘"Only [...] [...] muſt be invited to meet her. With regard to her ſuite, they will all be at the Lyon, whither I have recommended her Highneſs. The Mar⯑chioneſs of [...], and the Count and Counteſs of [...](names forgotten,) will dine with her Highneſs, at the ſame table, in the humble eating-room at the Oaks."’

Matters thus adjuſted, the Editor, who, during Dr. Berkeley's life, always kept an excellent cook, ſet her ſpi⯑rit quite at reſt, expecting, in due time, the arrival of a fine French lacquais, announcing when ſhe muſt go to the Lyon, requeſt the honour, &c.

One morning, before the expiration of the fortnight, on going down to breakfaſt, Mr. Wrightſon delivered to her a letter, which ſhe ſaw was directed by her Son. It con⯑tained only:

It may perhaps be aſked, how became Mr. Berkeley ſo well acquainted, ſo intereſted, for this lovely unfortu⯑nate Princeſs? His noble friends at Blenheim did him the honour to invite Mr. Berkeley, during her Highneſs's viſit at their delightful abode. Mr. Berkeley eſcorted her to Nuneham, and waited on her whilſt ſhe viewed all the noble buildings, paintings, &c. at Oxford. She ſaid ſhe much wiſhed to ſee Cambridge; but that, if ſhe went, ſhe feared ſhe ſhould not find a Mr. Berkeley there.

Mr. Berkeley, with his wonted amiablility and alertneſs, told her Highneſs, that ‘"if ſhe wiſhed to go thither, he would, with great pleaſure, give her a letter of intro⯑duction to the Vice-chancellor, who was a very intimate friend of his Father, and with whom he had the happi⯑neſs to be well acquainted, the very learned, accom⯑pliſhed, polite Dr. Farmer, Maſter of Emanuel Col⯑lege."’

[dxi] He accordingly did ſo. She ſaid, ‘"She wiſhed to ſee every thing that was curious during her ſtay in England;"’ adding, ‘"I hear that there is a curious Cathedral at Can⯑terbury. I ſaw nothing but a very old city, and a vaſt multitude of people."’

Aſking Mr. Berkeley, as he ſeemed to have a large ac⯑quaintance, ‘"if he happened to know any one at Canter⯑bury, to whom he could be ſo good as to give her a let⯑ter of introduction—juſt to ſhew her what was worthy attention there?"’

Mr. Berkeley told her, ‘"that he could moſt certainly do, for that his Father and Mother reſided there, and would have great pleaſure^*,"’ &c. &c.

[dxii] On hearing this, her Highneſs exulted, expecting, probably, to find as good a ſhow-man in the Father as ſhe had found in the Son. Dr. Berkeley could moſt elegantly, moſt highly, entertain his friends in almoſt every other way; but, as a ſhow-man, he was ſo notoriouſly bad, that a gentleman, a very near relation of his, uſed to ſay, ‘"George is the idleſt dog upon earth. One may come from Ireland, ſtay a month at Cookham, live on the fat of the land, and, but for Mrs. George Berkeley, go back again without ſeeing even either Cliefden's 'proud alcove,' or Windſor Caſtle, to ſay nothing of half a ſcore other beautiful places within a drive of his houſe, to which, with much ado, Mrs. Berkeley drags him, as ſhe will not leave him to dine at home without her."’ The Editor laid it down as a rule when ſhe married, and ſhe ſtrictly adhered to it, never to go any where in a morning, that would not admit of her placing herſelf at table at three o'clock, unleſs Dr. Berkeley ordered dinner later.

Dr. Berkeley was famous, when at Oxford, for not going on parties; ſo as to occaſion Mr. James Hamilton afore⯑named to ſay, ‘"Berkeley had always one anſwer at Oxford. 'Oh! not I indeed; I have ſeen Blenheim.'—So now it is, 'I have ſeen Windſor Caſtle,"’ &c. The fact is, Dr. [dxiii] Berkeley, on his arrival at Oxford, the firſt long vacation, flew half over England; added to which, any bodily exer⯑ciſe brought on with him, as with his Father, who uſed no exerciſe at all, but in the eaſieſt hung coach, for many years, a conſtant hectic feveriſhneſs.

Mr. Berkeley did not at all reſemble a late worthy Fel⯑low of All Souls College. The Editor one day, many years ago, aſking a very witty Fellow of that College, if he was acquainted with Dr. B [...]r of his College; he replied in the affirmative, adding, ‘"he is a very worthy man, but never throughly happy when he has not ſome Prince of the GERMANIC BODY to eſcort about the Univerſity."’

The Princeſs de Lambelle, although ſhe did not ſee, was ſeen at Canterbury. The day after her paſſing through Canterbury from Dover, the Editor met her old, very highly reſpected friend Captain Goſtling^*, who reproached her for not having ſtepped down to the city to look at the Princeſs de Lambelle, ſaying, ‘"I think every body but yourſelf was [dxiv] there."’ To which the Editor replied, ‘"that ſhe was too old and too ſtupid to go to SEE any body;"’ (ſhe did not add ‘"hear any thing;"’ for ſhe would, if ſhe could afford to hire horſes, willingly drive twenty miles, at leaſt once every week, to liſten to the converſation of Mr. BURKE;) adding, ‘"I dare ſay, the wiſe folks were all diſappointed."’ To which Captain Goſtling replied, ‘"I was not; for, I think, in my conſcience^*, that ſhe is altogether the very fineſt woman that the Almighty ever formed."’ The Edi⯑tor begged, as ſhe always does, to except her lamentably curious grandmother EVE before the Fall. Why would the ſilly woman^† wiſh to know evil? As much good as you pleaſe, Sir Serpent, but NO evil for me.

[dxv] A gentleman, very many years ago, mentioned to the Editor, that he had been taught by a very learned anatomi⯑cal gentleman a method of ſeparating the ſoul from the body, without a poſſibility of being ſuſpected of ſuicide; adding, that he would tell it to her: ſhe begged to be ex⯑cuſed hearing it, leſt, at any time of deep affliction, the enemy of her ſoul might tempt her to practiſe it. She alſo conjured him to let it die with him, as angelic BOYLE did his ſecret of diſcharging ink. The Editor believes her friend took her advice, as he is dead, and ſhe has never heard any thing of this dangerous ſecret.

Mr. Monck Berkeley, in one of his letters to his Mother, ſpeaking of her after much eulogium, adds, ‘"I am afraid I am really in love with her without knowing it."’

Some pains were taken to conceal from Mr. Berkeley, juſt then within a few days of his death, the dreadful fate of this lady, and of poor Louis the Sixteenth; but in vain. It was ſaid, ‘"that the monſter who murdered this lady received the wages of his iniquity in England, at the banking-houſe of an old amiable friend of Mr. Monck Berkeley, Mr. Chambers in Bond Street, one poor hun⯑dred pounds only."’ Our Bleſſed Maſter ſays, ‘"What ſhall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and loſe his own ſoul?"’ But few Papiſts are permitted to read the Book of God.

[dxvi] This brings to the Editor's remembrance a dialogue that many years ago paſſed between the late King George the Second and the French Ambaſſador at Herenhauſen, one day at dinner, when a relation of the Editor, the late Ri⯑chard Powney, Eſquire, Fellow of All Souls College, had the honour to dine with his Majeſty, who, when abroad, laid aſide royalty, and wiſhed his gueſts to forget that he was a King.

The Ambaſſador, a lively man, ſaid, ‘"YOU poor Kings ne⯑ver made ſo pitiful figures as when Joſhua had ſeven of you ſhut up in a cave together."’

The King replied, ‘"Ah! you Papiſts do not read the Bible, or you would know that he had but five of us in the cave."’

Mr. Powney, who entertained a table full of company at Dr. Berkeley's with this anecdote, ſaid, ‘"Every one ad⯑mired the ready wit of the King;"’ and all the company laughed heartily.

This lovely—muſt one ſtyle her unhappy or happy?—Princeſs could not avail herſelf of Mr. Monck Berkeley's politeneſs.

An order arriving in England from the unfortunate Louis XVI. for all his ſubjects to return to France, an expreſs [dxvii] followed the Princeſs to Cambridge. The Editor thinks ſhe recollects hearing her Son ſay that ſhe had been there ſome days.

This order was ſo urgent, that the Princeſs only ſtayed in Canterbury to change horſes for Dover, at three in the morning. At eight Mr. Monck Berkeley's letter, men⯑tioned above as to be received from the fair hands of the beauteous Princeſs, was brought to the Oaks by the honeſt hoſtler of the Lyon, and delivered with ‘"Mrs. Lambelle's beſt compliments to Mrs. Berkeley, and ſhe was very ſorry ſhe could not viſit her as it was ſo early, but that ſhe ſhould be in Canterbury again very ſoon, when ſhe would come—and that Mr. Berkeley, the gentleman who wrote the letter, which Mrs. Lambelle charged him to deliver ſafe, was very well."’

The Princeſs's degradation by the honeſt hoſtler afforded much diverſion to Dr. and Mrs. Berkeley and their friends. Alas! what degradation did her lovely, lifeleſs from ſuffer after it was lifeleſs? for, it is very certain ſhe ‘"never ſaw,"’ although ſhe taſted, as every mortal muſt, death; for her ſweet ſpirit was diſmiſſed from the lovely caſket in a ſingle inſtant. Happy if found waſhed clean in the atoning blood of God, cloathed with the robes of HIS RIGHTEOUSNESS, and her ſpirit renewed by that Spirit which HE died to purchaſe for all that throughly turn to HIM! See the viiith [dxviii] chapter to the Romans; which glorious chapter, the Editor has heard Dr. Berkeley ſay, his great-grandfather, Mr. Monck of Grange-Gormond, when old, and viſited at times, perhaps not very often, by his fine young lady and gentle⯑men grandchildren, uſed, his large Bible always lying on the table, to requeſt them to read to him, which occaſioned their ſuppoſing that the old gentleman doated.

The late very pious Dr. Booth, Dean of Windſor, was ſo addicted to talk on the ſame delightful ſubject, that the Editor well remembers a gentleman coming in one evening to her houſe, when ſhe reſided at Windſor thirty-ſix years ago, and, happening to ſay ‘"he came from the Deanry,"’ a gentleman aſked, ‘"Did you hear any news?"’

Mr. Trevanion^*.—‘"No."’

Gentleman.—‘"What did you talk about?"’

Mr. Trevanion.—‘"Why on the Dean's beloved topic, the great bleſſing of REDEMPTION, the wonders of RE⯑DEEMING LOVE. Aye, aye, good man; he never ſeems to enjoy any other converſation."’ How happy in age to reſemble the friends of St. Paul! ‘"whoſe converſation,"’ the Apoſtle tells us, ‘"is in Heaven,"’ &c. &c. May that of the Editor, and all her beloved aged friends, be daily more and more ſo, is her ardent wiſh.

[dxix] When laſt at Canterbury, the Editor requeſted her wor⯑thy friend, the throughly elegant amiable Mrs. Hughes, to ſay to her relation, the Reverend Mr. Hambley, the pre⯑ſent vicar of Cookham, how very ſenſibly dear Dr. Berke⯑ley and herſelf felt that univerſally beloved gentleman's po⯑lite, generous, pleaſant conduct, on Dr. Berkeley reſigning that lovely ſpot. Leſt it ſhould have ſlipped that lady's me⯑mory, the Editor inſerts part of a letter of hers to Dr. Berkeley, who, as well as her Son, preſerved all her ſcrawls: ‘"You bade me draw the character of your ſucceſſor (at Cookham). You obſerved that he had LYONS in his bearing armorial: to that they are confined, I really believe. He ſeems to have much of the Lamb in his nature and man⯑ners, and I do not ſuſpect that he is a wolf in ſheep's cloathing; which I abhor. Suppoſe we get our worthy friend Sir Iſaac to exchange the noble Savage for the lovely Lamb for him?"’ Mrs. Berkeley gladly embraces this opportunity of holding up to its merited praiſe ſo amiable a character.

It may be aſked, ‘"What could Mrs. Berkeley have to do with dilapidations during the life of Dr. Berkeley?"’ She has, alas! had too much to do with them ſince his lamented death. Dr. Berkeley never took dilapidations, but at Acton a very trifle, and at Canterbury not forty pounds, and immediately expended on the Prebendal Houſe [dxx] more than two hundred pounds. The Editor aſked him how he came to take any, as he never had before, and Dr. Sted⯑man did not die rich; he ſweetly replied, ‘"Becauſe I had not you here to remind me not to do it."’

Dr. Berkeley uſed always, from the time he married, to leave all buſineſs that he thought might have any thing at all unpleaſant in it to Mrs. Berkeley, laughingly ſaying. ‘"it was the pleaſanteſt thing in the world to have a wife, that one could metamorphoſe into a ſteward; that although [...] (calling Mrs. Berkeley by her name) had always declared, when ſhe was ſingle, ſhe was reſolved never to marry any man who took a woman merely as a diſintereſted houſekeeper, to ſee that the ſervants did not cheat him from morning till night, and to bring him an heir; yet ſhe had not declared againſt being a ſteward; as was the caſe of the little quiet mother of a worthy Baronet, now a Peer, whoſe father had at leaſt twenty thouſand pounds per annum."’

One day, an amiable Counteſs, a lovely friend of the Editor's youth, dining at the ſaid wiſe man's, with other company, after the ladies were retired to the drawing-room, the butler came, whiſpered the lady; after ſome time he re⯑peated his viſit, and, ‘"Oh! beware of the third time,"’ ſays the old proverb, he entered, and whiſpered loud enough for every one to hear, ‘"Madam, if you do not pleaſe to [dxxi] come, and weigh out the hops, they cannot go on with the brewing, and the beer will be all ſpoiled^*".’

Beer is generally ſpoiled by hops; and the Editor has been repeatedly told, that there is ſtill an act of Queen Elizabeth unrepealed, forbidding the ‘"planting or culti⯑vating that pernicious weed called hop."’ (The Editor has heard from her youth that the law for extinguiſhing fire on the tolling the curfew bell is alſo unrepealed—She is ſome⯑times tempted to wiſh it was enforced.) Perhaps there are few perſons who fully know the wholeſomeneſs of aged hard beer. The Editor has frequently heard the late ex⯑cellent Mrs. Tucker, of Canterbury, ſay, that when her father was head maſter of the King's School, the ſecond maſters, and the other boarding houſes, had, ſummer after ſummer, a very bad fever amongſt the boys; but her father, Mr. Gurney, had not a boy ill, which he attributed en⯑tirely, under God, to their drinking very hard home-brewed beer. He brewed, as they do in all wiſe gentlemen's fami⯑lies, only twice in the year, in March and October. All the world have of late found out the virtues of beer without hops. New, or as it is commonly called ſweet-wort, is ex⯑cellent [dxxii] for worms in children, and for ſcurvies in men; and when the poiſon of the ſtrong rank weed, hop, is gone off, it is aqua vitae to many, to the Editor, even when al⯑moſt vinegar; but a table ſpoonful of ſtale brewer's beer is almoſt death to her. Qu. Why is this?

The lady, however, begged excuſe, went, and did her duty as houſekeeper. Her huſband built a very fine houſe, but would have no back door, that he might ſee the mo⯑tions of his half hundred of ſervants all day long. The Editor, then about ſeventeen, offered to lay a wager with a gentleman, that within two years he would break out a back door; he did it within one.

The Editor now experiences the want of a back gate at leaſt. She has few ſervants, but, thank God, they are not eye ſervants, ſo want not watching, but there are many beggars who do; for ‘"theſe beaſts of the people,"’ on being conſtantly refuſed relief, leave the front, the only gate, open, for the beaſts of the common, to rout the garden direfully indeed.

The Editor, and a lady with her, went a few weeks ago into a ſhop: a girl, about thirteen, ſhabbily dreſſed, came in, aſked for a pennyworth of gingerbread; it was cut; and alſo for a pennyworth of ſugar candy; the miſtreſs of the ſhop ſenſibly aſked, ‘"Would you have both?"’

[dxxiii]Beggar.—‘"Yes, I eats um together."’

This being at the time when bread was at its very higheſt price, and WISE people believed we had no corn in the na⯑tion; the Editor aſked, ‘"If ſhe lived at D [...], that ſhe might avoid relieving her family?"’

Beggar.—‘"No."’

Mrs. B.—‘"Where then?"’

Beggar.—‘"No where; we travels the country."’

Mrs. B.—‘"What do you ſell, laces and pins?"’

Beggar.—‘"No, we only travels about."’—That is, we are common beggars; can it be charity to relieve ſuch?

The Editor, at length getting ſight of moſt of the ſheets at once, is confirmed in what ſhe ſuſpected; that ſhe has been guilty of tautology, of Egotiſm, or rather Editoriſm. It is ſaid of the excellent Lord Chancellor Clarendon, that, in his incomparable Hiſtory of the Rebellion, the Chancel⯑lor of the Exchequer is too often introduced.

The Editor has always thought that there is at leaſt as much, if not more, in the circumlocution often practiſed, and ſhe is certain a vaſt deal of affectation, which ſhe ever [dxxiv] abhorred, does ſtill abhor, eſpecially in matrons, and pities in girls, in perſons relating tranſactions, in which they were neceſſarily principal actors, front figures, who cannot be thrown into the back-ground without ruining the picture, as is done by [...] at [...], by uſing circumlocution in mentioning themſelves. It is like a very plain woman decking herſelf violently; it calls attention, but does not, according to the Editor's humble opinion, in either caſe, create reſpect. It muſt be conſidered that through life there was ſo conſtant an intercourſe, whether preſent or abſent, between Mr. Berkeley and his Mother, that She has, during the writing theſe ſheets, frequently ſtudied how to put her⯑ſelf in a dark corner, which has been much more difficult than the doing that kind office to her dear Son, until he attained to the age of five, when that mode of puniſhment ceaſed, and another ſomewhat ſimilar was ſubſtituted.

The Editor, perhaps, (having deſcribed herſelf as the moſt reſolute of all females, where her children or her conſcience were concerned,) owes it to herſelf to ſay, that it is moſt certain that ſhe is not curſed with a ſtubborn or a ſaucy ſpirit: both were pretty eaſily by her wiſe mother nipped almoſt before they were in bud. When ſhe was not quite four years old, being very buſily employed in underſſing her doll, to put it into the cradle, in an arbore at the far⯑theſt part of a very long walk, her mother called her: thus importantly occupied, ſhe, conceiving that it could not be [dxxv] heard, uttered the following ſoliloquy, ‘"I won't come till I have done."’ Very ſoon appeared the amiable woman who had taken care of here from a month old, (for, thank God, her mother was her nurſe,) with ‘"Oh! fie, Miſs, how came you to ſay ſuch a naughty word to my Miſtreſs?"’—‘"What word?"’—‘"Why you know, Miſs, you ſaid I won't come."’ Miſs did not deny it, knowing, from the time ſhe could articulate, that a LIE, even with her father, was a threat of being whipped, ‘"all but to death."’

The little culprit was delivered to her mother, ſtanding at the garden door to receive her. She can almoſt fancy that her wriſt, when ſhe thinks of it, feels the graſp of her mo⯑ther's elegant long fingers, and hears her ſay, ‘"You won't come, MADAM, will you?"’ In ſhe was taken, ſhewn a nice ſlice of bread covered with currant jelly on the table. ‘"Look you there, I called you to give you that for your ſupper. You will now go to bed without any ſupper, but a good whipping;"’ which was inſtantly adminiſtered, to teach her never to ſay ‘"I won't"’ again to her mother or father. It proved effectual; for, the Editor can, with ſtricteſt truth, aſſert, that this was the firſt and the laſt time that frightful word was ever pronounced by her, to either parent.

It pleaſed the gracious Giver of every good gift to ſpare that excellent mother until her daughter was twenty years [dxxvi] old, although at the time of her father's death no one would have given half a year's purchaſe for her life; and ſhe has frequently told her daughters, when grown up, that every breaking up, when ſhe returned them to Mrs. Sheeles's, that ſhe conceived ſhe had taken her laſt leave of them. The Editor often cannot refrain exclaiming, to her excellent ſiſter, ‘"How gracious was God to us in ſparing our angelic Mother!"’

To ſhew that the Editor needed not much diſcipline to bring her to ſubmit to lawful authority, a ſimple little ſtory may, ſhe hopes, be excuſed. The fault is obliterated from her memory; the puniſhment never can, and her conſequent ſufferings. One of the Fathers, deſcribing woman, ſays, ‘"She is an animal delighting in finery."’ A very pretty pale blue (the Editor's favourite colour, from her cradle, for her⯑ſelf, to this time) bonnet had juſt arrived with ſome things of her mother's from town; which ſhe had contrived to get ſight of half a dozen times during the morning, and was told ſhe was to wear it in the afternoon to go viſit Miſs Sloper, ſiſter of General Sir Robert Sloper; Mr. and Mrs. Slo⯑per then lived at Waltham Place. (This young lady died at Mrs. Dennis's ſchool.) Whether elated by ſo frequently contemplating the beautiful bonnet, or in what elſe ſhe of⯑fended, whether by flying up one pair of ſtairs and down the other of the old houſe, a favourite amuſement with both ſiſters when their Mother was out of the houſe. Be this, [dxxvii] however, as it may, the culprit was called, well-jobed, and told, that inſtead of going out viſiting in the new bonnet, ſhe was to ſtay at home tied by the arm to, ſhe believes, the firſt fly-table ever made in England, made according to Mrs. Frinſham's own directions given to a country cabinet-maker, and which ſhe (the culprit) could have drawn all over the houſe. She ſupplicated for pardon, but in vain; ſhe was made to ſit down on the floor under the table, tied by the left arm. She was tied with a good long nee⯑dleful of common white ſilk, taken from a ball in her mother's Indian work-bowl. She wept much a little while, but, being naturally of a very cheerful diſpoſition, ſoon dried her eyes, and began to amuſe herſelf with ſcratching a tree and ſome flowers on the ſhining old oak floor, with a large pin that ſhe had coaxed out of her frock behind.

The Editor's delight in drawing and mixing colours com⯑menced, ſhe remembers, before ſhe left off her back⯑ſtring. Thus amuſed, ſhe forgot that ſhe was a priſoner, and had crawled quite to the ſtretch of her tether. On finding it, ſhe was in ſuch terror leſt the ſilk ſhould break, and that her mother ſhould think that ſhe had dared to li⯑berate herſelf, that ſhe crept ſo cloſe to the leg of the table as to let the ſilk hang in a loop for conſiderably more than an hour, not amuſing herſelf in any way but the delight ariſing from her happineſs that the ſilk had not broke.

[dxxviii] It may perhaps, by ſome, be thought ſtrange, that a very docile girl ſhould make ſo very reſolute a mother. Her diſpoſition is naturally yielding, except when duty called for ſteadineſs, as in the caſe of Mr. Berkeley. His brother was as eaſily governed as his Mother.

The Editor had the happineſs, ſhe ſtill feels it ſuch, that her mother bore teſtimony to the amenableneſs of her temper a very few months before her ‘"ſlow ſudden death."’ A beloved friend of the Editor was ſtrenuouſly aſſerting, ‘"that every human being was ſtubborn, and would, if poſſible, get their own will; that nothing but ſuperior abſolute force prevented it;"’ adding, ‘"ſhew me any man, woman, or child, that is not ſtubborn, and I will ſhew you a black ſwan."’ Some late travellers have diſcovered this rara avis.

The Editor conſtantly oppoſed the doctrine of univerſal ſtubbornneſs, and inſiſted, that, although ſhe had MANY faults, ſhe was certainly not a wilful being; and reſpectfully requeſted her mother to ſay whether ſhe thought her ſo. Mrs. Frinſham laid down her work, and, lifting up her ſweet eyes, which exactly reſembled Dr. Berkeley's, ſaid, ‘"Oh! no, my dear, indeed you are not ſtubborn; you never gave me five minutes trouble in your life from wilfulneſs."’

[dxxix] The mentioning of theſe things brings to the Editor's recollection a converſation with her Son not many months before his death, telling a friend, who had a violent-tem⯑pered little boy, ‘"that ſhe ſhould contrive to prevent his crying and ſcreaming ſo violently as deſcribed, as it was dangerous, and often productive of bad conſequences to boys' health;"’ adding, ‘"that ſhe always took care to pre⯑vent it with her own boys; that when ſhe had locked them into a light room, (no child ſhould ever be ſhut into a dark room; ſad conſequences have ariſen from it;) and got the key in her own pocket, that no ſervant might kindly adminiſter conſolation, ſhe always ſtood to liſten till the roaring ceaſed."’

Hereupon Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"My dear Mother, did you, could you think that I was fool enough to ſcream a moment longer than I thought you were in hearing? I ſtrained my lungs that you might hear as long as I conceived it poſſible you ſhould hear." (Mrs. Berkeley had often obſerved that the laſt ſhout was the moſt violent.) "I then immediately reached down ſome book, (the priſon was generally the Editor's book cloſet,) to amuſe me till the hour, or the two hours, according to my ſentence, was elapſed, I never ſhed a tear;"’ (that his Father often remarked;) ‘"I only roared like a wild bull, to, as I con⯑ceived, puniſh you for puniſhing me—bleſſing on you for your wiſdom!"’

[dxxx] The Editor, on peruſing the ſheets quite ready for pub⯑lication, finds that ſhe has omitted many anecdotes that muſt have heightened the ideas of Mr. Monck Berkeley's wiſdom and amiability, and his undaunted courage. His reſcuing a poor little child late one night near Covent Gar⯑den, as he was going home to his chambers. He met the thief ſoon after at the Old Bailey, and ſhe was tranſported. His reſcuing an amiable friend of his from the Jews, whoſe wiſe guardians did not, at twenty, allow him as many hun⯑dreds per annum as, the next year, he was to inherit thou⯑ſands; and, aſſiſted by his learned, amiable friend, Mr. H [...], from the Gentiles at four in the morning, when going along Covent Garden they ſaw a coach, and ſome kind of buſtle and ſtruggle.

Hereupon Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"It is very late, let us go and ſee if all is right there."’

On drawing near, they ſaw a gentleman lifting—drag⯑ging into a coach by three females, aſſiſted by the coach⯑man. Mr. H [...] exclaimed, ‘"Good God! Berkeley, it is your friend [...] [...]."’

Mr. Berkeley ſprung forward, and ſaid, ‘"My [...] [...] [...], where are you going?"’

[...], extremely intoxicated, replied, ‘"I do not know."’

[dxxxi]Mr. B.—‘"Yes, you do; you are going with us."’

Mr. B.'s Friend.—‘"Yes, yes."’

The Nymphs began raving, and ſaid, ‘"The gentlemen had no right to take their gueſt from them. [...] [...] was going to ſpend the evening with them."’

The Coachman ſaid, ‘"The gentleman belonged to the ladies. They had taken his coach to carry him home."’

Mr. Berkeley ſaid, ‘"Have-a-care, my friend, I have taken the number of your coach already; and if you act like a villain, as ſurely as I live till morning, you ſhall appear before the Lord-Mayor. I fancy the ladies can walk home by themſelves; and do you aſſiſt us in putting [...] [...] into the coach; and at your peril drive to any place but where I order you."’

They accordingly drove to [...] [...]'s lodgings, where they delivered him, his bourſe bien chargée, not des louis, but guineas, and his very fine watch, ſafe into the hands of his valet de chambre, with directions to put him to bed.

The Editor rejoices very ſincerely, that PROVIDENCE has ſome time ago delivered his Lordſhip into the hands of a very ſenſible worthy Lady, who has brought him a ſon [dxxxii] and heir to his vaſt eſtate. May he grow up as amiable as his father, as ſenſible as his mother!

The Editor, on peruſing the ſheets of this wonderfully long Preface de ſuite tout enſemble is hurt to find, that her memory is become ſo treacherous as to have permitted her to be ſo guilty of tautology, at the diſtance of little more than ſix months, to have twice quoted ſome favourite lines of Mr. Addiſon. This, however, may be pardoned, for they are beautiful, and ſhe repeats the hymn of which they form a part every day; but repeating her own remarks or comments ſhe laments, as ſhe does her ſeeming ingratitude, when, mentioning the amiable hoſpitality of Scotland, ſhe perceives ſhe has omitted to mention the very highly polite attentions received by Dr. Berkeley's family, from the very elegant ſiſter of the worthy Lord Newark, reſident at St. Andrew's when Dr. Berkeley's family went to reſide there; ‘"although laſt, yet not leaſt,"’ &c.

A lady, the other day, ſaid to the Editor, ‘"that our Nobility wanted a little humbling; that to be ſure they had carried the matter much too far in France; but a little humbling would do them ſervice for both worlds."’ The Editor begged that the Scottiſh in general, excepting ſome few, might be ſpared; and, as they took the advice of our bleſſed Maſter, and amiably ‘"humbled themſelves, that they and ſome few Engliſh might be exempted from the ſaid humbling."’

[dxxxiii] The Editor has not the honour to be known at preſent to many Nobleſſe, ‘"The world forgetting, by the world forgot;"’ but ſhe is apt to think that modern Nobility are addicted to ſet more value on a coronet than thoſe to whom it has de⯑ſcended by hereditary ſucceſſion through ſeveral genera⯑tions.

Mrs. Berkeley ſome years ago had the honour to cor⯑reſpond with ſome Engliſh Nobles of both ſexes, now no more. Very many of their letters are preſerved—as polite as if ſhe had been noble.

Several years ago the Editor took leave to write to a modern Peereſs, requeſting a very ſmall favour for a young lady, very very much Mrs. Berkeley's ſuperior, not to ſay by birth the Peereſs's. The anſwer was returned on an half-ſheet of common paper, ſealed with a wafer pricked with a pin, expreſſing aſtoniſhment that the Editor could ſuppoſe ſhe could do what ſhe requeſted,—uſe her intereſt to procure a vacant twenty pounds per annum for a poor lady, who muſt have had the PAS of the Peereſs until her Lord was a few years ago created a Peer. What made it ſtill ſtranger to the poor ſimple Editor was, that when the Peereſs and herſelf were both girls, the Peereſs's lovely mother felt, at leaſt expreſſed herſelf (ſhe had the grace of humility) [dxxxiv] obliged by the Editor's mother's attentions to her and her little girl, now the little Peereſs. This occured not long after the Editor's return to England, and ſhe ſuppoſed that ſome great revolution in politeneſs had taken place during her abſence, and that poor untitled gentry muſt approach Nobility as Swift makes the ſubjects of Japan approach their Emperor, and ‘"lick the duſt as they crawl towards him."’

The Editor's ideas concerning a revolution in manners were, however, ſoon corrected, by her having the honour to receive letters à l'égarde de ſon cher fils from her amiable friend, Lord Loughborouh. An inſtance of his Lordſhip's amiability, related to her by another old friend, the agree⯑able Mr. Berridge, the hoſpitable maſter of John à Gaunt's Caſtle, emboldened her, at the diſtance of near a quarter of a century, to write to his Lordſhip to introduce that dear young man, telling his Lordſhip, ‘"that naturaliſts aſ⯑ſure us, that the moſt timid animals become courageous where their young are concerned, that ſhe felt the truth of the aſſertion."’ His Lordſhip's, and good Lady Lough⯑borough's attentions are carefully regiſtered in her grateful memory. His Lordſhip's anſwer was moſt polite and friendly. Their amiable Graces of Marlborough, and the late excellent Lady Effingham, who have chanced to honour the Editor with letters, have written on whole ſheets of gilt paper, moſt condeſcendingly ſubſcribed, and ſealed [dxxxv] —as to a gentlewoman—not to be mantua-maker. Indeed the Editor uſed to write more reſpectfully to the famous Mrs. Munday, her old playfellow, niece of John Breedon, Eſquire, of Bear-Court, Berks, when ſhe wanted a new négligée.

The poor lady for whom the Editor ſupplicated the Peereſs's intereſt, for only a poor vacant twenty pounds per annum, has the honour, at leaſt her grandfather had, and upwards for very many centuries, the honour to have two crowned heads, put on mourning at their deceaſe, (as, whilſt there was a King in France, was always done by that King when the head of the Courtney family died,) which the Editor is very ſure no crowned head ever did for her an⯑ceſtors, nor, as ſhe verily believes, for thoſe of Captain [...], father of the Peereſs. The poor young lady ſhewed her high birth, by ſubmitting with, the Editor really thinks, unexampled fortitude and true unaffected dignity, to the diſtreſſes to which an imprudent match, in very early youth, had unavoidably ſubjected herſelf, her elegant huſband, and lovely little girl. Although Mrs. Berkeley failed to obtain relief from the courtly, COURTEOUS Peereſs, the amiable Dr. Berkeley's pocket failed not to alleviate their deep diſtreſs; for which the young gentleman bleſſed him when dying. His ſenſible, grateful relict and lovely daughter continue to bleſs his ſweet memory. Dr. Berke⯑ley [dxxxvi] is receiving his reward; the Peereſs ſtill enjoys her new coronet.

Mr. Monck Berkeley, a great herald from ten years old, was conſulted at twenty-two by a noble, amiable Peer, a great herald, a friend of the Peereſs's Lord elect, about ſupporters to be added when the arms of [...] were to be tipped with a coronet. Mentioning the ſelection Mr. Monck Berkeley firſt made would too plainly mark out the Peereſs, who, it is hoped, although ſhe is now turned three⯑ſcore, may live to grow older—and wiſer. The Editor ne⯑ver wiſhes ‘"her pocket cat-o-nine tails"’ to wound any but the vicious and the ungrateful, and only to make the inſolent tingle a little. The Editor has ſome letters, which ſhe pre⯑ſerves, from ancient nobleſſe, male and female, for their in⯑ternal as well as their external merit. The aſſumed motto of the excellent Counteſs of L [...], round her Lady⯑ſhips cipher-ſeal, is always carefully preſerved; ‘"HOLINESS IS HAPPINESS."’ Oh! that this were the motto of mil⯑lions, noble and non-noble!

The two following letters of the late George-Monck Berkeley, Eſquire, were written at different periods; the firſt, when he was juſt about to return from his laſt viſt to Scotland in the end of the autumn of 1789, not then, alas! thinking it was his laſt viſit; for he frequently uſed to ſay, ‘"If God ſpares my life to ſettle, I ſhall every now and [dxxxvii] then, once in three or four years, in ſummer vacation, make a viſit to Scotland for a few weeks."’ Although an enthuſiaſtic admirer of Johnſon in his writings, all on the ſide of virtue, his integrity, &c. he uſed to ſay, ‘"He be⯑haved like a ſavage in Scotland, where every reſpectful attention was ſhewn to him by every one."’ Mr. Berke⯑ley conſtantly ſtyled Dr. Johnſon the noble learned BEAR. His own abhorrence of what is called rudeneſs, even when perſons are ever ſo much inflamed by reſentment, he con⯑tracted very early in life from his Mother, who added to Shakſpeare's ‘"Speak daggers, but uſe none,"’ let thoſe daggers, for your own ſake, be gilded; never uſe coarſe lan⯑guage, nor make a coarſe ſimile. The ſecond was written at Dover a very few months before his lamented death.

[dxli] After the above addreſs was publiſhed in Edinburgh, and diſperſed through Scotland, Mr. Berkeley ſent up a printed copy to his Mother, deſiring her to ſhew it to his Father, and learn his ſentiments of it; and after he left Scotland it was immediately known who was the writer.

Mr. Berkeley was early convinced of the Divine right of Epiſcopacy. His Mother, leſt ſhe might die, had engra⯑ven in his mind that one text, which nothing can whittle away, ſpoken by God incarnate himſelf—‘"Whoſeſoever ſins YE remit they are remitted. Whoſeſoever ſins YE retain they are retained. Lo! I am with you alway even unto the end of the world."’ A Biſhop's being a vaut⯑rien, a Socinian, &c. &c. does not affect the office of a Bi⯑ſhop, as our bleſſed Lord plainly ſhewed, by conſecrating the traitor Judas. He who redde every heart certainly knew his, and, no doubt, choſe one a DEVIL^*, as he ſtyles Ju⯑das Iſcariot, on purpoſe to ſhew us that it is the office, not the man. The Editor has often made perſons ſtare, by aſſerting, ‘"that ſhe had as lief been baptized, or received the ſacred elements, from the hands of Judas Iſcariot, as from St. Peter, or the beloved Diſciple."’ We may wiſh Biſhops, Prieſts, Deacons, and Ourſelves, more piety, leſs worldly-mindedneſs, and more to adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour.

A very vexatious ſuit commenced againſt the Editor, as ſole executrix to Dr. Berkeley, to which ſhe did not prove [dxliii] till the middle of May, although he died on the 6th of January, and from a quarter ſhe little expected, and could hardly be perſuaded to believe it by the very Reverend bringer of the intelligence, who repeatedly aſſured her, in the preſence of her Siſter, that the whole affair was to be carried on in the moſt amicable way.

The Commencer of this ſuit and the Editor have fre⯑quently had very warm, amicable diſputes concerning the lawfulneſs of going to law with your brother, your neigh⯑bour, or any one; the commencer of the ſuit againſt the Editor conſtantly declaring that She thought it ſo very wicked, that ſhe would ſooner give up every ſhilling ſhe poſſeſſed; the Editor conſtantly ſaying, ‘"That, ſeeing it no where forbidden in any part of her old-faſhioned book; and ſeeing St. Paul, in one of his Epiſtles, blaming his converts for carrying their litigations before Heathen tribunals, Heathen judges, and recommending them to ſelect ſome wiſe Chriſ⯑tian to decide in matters of law, ſhe ſhould, if attacked, certainly defend her right."’ To which the Commencer of the ſuit uſed uniformly to reply, ‘"Oh! fye, * * * * *; you cannot be a Chriſtian."’ Here follows a proof, how lit⯑tle we know ourſelves, how little we can judge how we ſhall act, until called upon to act. The Editor was called upon to relinquiſh. The very Reverend the [...] of [...], her Lawyer, the WORTHY Agent employed by [dxliv] the Commencer of the ſuit (a near kinſman both of his employer and Dr. Berkeley), all know that Mrs. Berkeley in⯑ſtantly declared, ſhe was ready to do it; and, fearing leſt Death might overtake her before the forms could be completed, ſhe inſtantly added a codicil to her will, bequeathing the ſum in diſpute^*: it could not be witneſſed until paſt ten at night, as is well known to her excellent Siſter, her ſer⯑vants, and a worthy neighbour called in to witneſs it, who came not home untill that late hour. The [...] of [...], who brought her the intelligence, ſaid, ‘"She muſt oppoſe it."’ The Editor, ignorant in many things beſides law matters, enquired why? being ready to do every thing that was wiſhed. ‘"It muſt be pleaded,"’ was the anſwer. The Editor then obeyed, made a horrid hot jour⯑ney from Oxford to London on the 17th of Auguſt, and has in this amicable way been taking journeys, feeing coun⯑ſel, ſwearing—nothing but truth, God, the ſearcher of ALL [dxlv] hearts, well knows^*—at different times ever ſince, until now June 30, 1796^†.

The Editor has heard from ſome real friends, that ſhe is much blamed for the oppoſition ſhe has, by the Com⯑mencer's friend, the [...] of [...], been told ſhe muſt make: but ſhe feared to ſhare the fate of an amiable relation, who neglecting to obey a ſummons from a Law Court, on a ſuit inſtituted againſt her, by her WORTHY ſon, for neglect of paying a ſmall annuity left by his father to [dxlvi] his aunt, he, enjoying then a paternal eſtate of two thou⯑ſand pounds per annum, and knowing he muſt inherit that of his uncle, at leaſt ſix thouſand pounds per annum more, ſuffered his unfortunate mother to be dragged to Wincheſter jail. Mr. Monck Berkeley, on hearing it, ſaid, ‘"I will ne⯑ver ſpeak to him again whilſt I breathe."’