Peter Plymley’s Letters
and
SELECTED ESSAYS

BY
SYDNEY SMITH

CASSELL & COMPANY Limited
LONDON  PARIS  & MELBOURNE
1893

INTRODUCTION.

Sydney Smith, of the same age as Walter Scott, was born at Woodford, in Essex, in the year 1771, and he died of heart disease, aged seventy-four, on the 22nd of February, 1845.  His father was a clever man of wandering habits who, when he settled in England, reduced his means by buying, altering, spoiling, and then selling about nineteen different places in England.  His mother was of a French family from Languedoc, that had been driven to England by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.  Sydney Smith’s grandfather, upon the mother’s side, could speak no English, and he himself ascribed some of his gaiety to the French blood in his veins.

He was one of four sons.  His eldest brother Robert—known as Bobus—was sent to Eton, where he joined Canning, Frere, and John Smith, in writing the Eton magazine, the Microcosm; and at Cambridge Bobus afterwards was known as a fine Latin scholar.  Sydney Smith went first to a school at Southampton, and then to Winchester, where he became captain of the school.  Then he was sent for six months to Normandy for a last polish to his French before he went on to New College, Oxford.  When he had obtained his fellowship there, his father left him to his own resources.  His eldest brother had been trained for the bar, his two younger brothers were sent out to India, and Sydney, against his own wish, yielded to the strong desire of his father that he should take orders as a clergyman.  Accordingly, in 1794, he became curate of the small parish of Netherhaven, in Wiltshire.  Meat came to Netherhaven only once a week in a butcher’s cart from Salisbury, and the curate often dined upon potatoes flavoured with ketchup.

The only educated neighbour was Mr. Hicks Beach, the squire, who at first formally invited the curate to dinner on Sundays, and soon found his wit, sense, and high culture so delightful, that the acquaintance ripened into friendship.  After two years in the curacy, Sydney Smith gave it up and went abroad with the squire’s son.  “When first I went into the Church,” he wrote afterwards, “I had a curacy in the middle of Salisbury Plain; the parish was Netherhaven, near Amesbury.  The squire of the parish, Mr. Beach, took a fancy to me, and after I had served it two years, he engaged me as tutor to his eldest son, and it was arranged that I and his son should proceed to the University of Weimar in Saxony.  We set out, but before reaching our destination Germany was disturbed by war, and, in stress of politics, we put into Edinburgh, where I remained five years.”

Young Michael Beach, who had little taste for study, lived with Sydney Smith as his tutor, and found him a wise guide and pleasant friend.  When Michael went to the University, his brother William was placed under the same good care.  Sydney Smith, about the same time, went to London to be married.  His wife’s rich brother quarrelled with her for marrying a man who said that his only fortune consisted in six small silver teaspoons.  One day after their happy marriage he ran in to his wife and threw them in her lap, saying, “There, Kate, you lucky girl, I give you all my fortune!”  The lucky girl had a small fortune of her own which her husband had strictly secured to herself and her children.  Mr. Beach recognised the value of Sydney Smith’s influence over his son by a wedding gift of £750.  In 1802 a daughter was born, and in the same year Sydney Smith joined Francis Jeffrey and other friends, who then maintained credit for Edinburgh as the Modern Athens, in the founding of The Edinburgh Review, to which the papers in this volume, added to the Peter Plymley Letters, were contributed.  The Rev. Sydney Smith preached sometimes in the Episcopal Church at Edinburgh, and presently had, in addition to William Beach, a son of Mr. Gordon, of Ellon Castle, placed under his care, receiving £400 a year for each of the young men.

In 1803 Sydney Smith left Edinburgh for London, where he wrote busily in The Edinburgh Review, but remained poor for many years.  His wit brought friends, and the marriage of his eldest brother with Lord Holland’s aunt quickened the growth of a strong friendship with Lord Holland.  Through the good offices of Lord Holland, Sydney Smith obtained, in 1806, aged thirty-five, the living of Foston-le-Clay, in Yorkshire.  In the next year appeared the first letter of Peter Plymley to his brother Abraham on the subject of the Irish Catholics.

These letters fell, we are told, like sparks on a heap of gunpowder.  All London, and soon all England, was alive to the sound reason recommended by a lively wit.  Sydney Smith lived to be recognised as first among the social wits, and it was always the chief praise of his wit that wisdom was the soul of it.  Peter Plymley’s letters, and Sydney Smith’s articles on the same subject in The Edinburgh Review were the most powerful aids furnished by the pen to the solution of the burning question of their time.  Lord Murray called the Plymley letters “after Pascal’s letters the most instructive piece of wisdom in the form of irony ever written.”  Worldly wealth came later; but in wit, wisdom, and kindly helpful cheerfulness, from youth to age, Sydney Smith’s life was rich.

H. M.

Letters on the Subject of the Catholics.

TO
MY BROTHER ABRAHAM,
WHO LIVES IN THE COUNTRY.
BY PETER PLYMLEY.

LETTER I.

Dear Abraham,—A worthier and better man than yourself does not exist; but I have always told you, from the time of our boyhood, that you were a bit of a goose.  Your parochial affairs are governed with exemplary order and regularity; you are as powerful in the vestry as Mr. Perceval is in the House of Commons,—and, I must say, with much more reason; nor do I know any church where the faces and smock-frocks of the congregation are so clean, or their eyes so uniformly directed to the preacher.  There is another point, upon which I will do you ample justice; and that is, that the eyes so directed towards you are wide open; for the rustic has, in general, good principles, though he cannot control his animal habits; and, however loud he may snore, his face is perpetually turned towards the fountain of orthodoxy.

Having done you this act of justice, I shall proceed, according to our ancient intimacy and familiarity, to explain to you my opinions about the Catholics, and to reply to yours.

In the first place, my sweet Abraham, the Pope is not landed—nor are there any curates sent out after him—nor has he been hid at St. Albans by the Dowager Lady Spencer—nor dined privately at Holland House—nor been seen near Dropmore.  If these fears exist (which I do not believe), they exist only in the mind of the Chancellor of the Exchequer; they emanate from his zeal for the Protestant interest; and, though they reflect the highest honour upon the delicate irritability of his faith, must certainly be considered as more ambiguous proofs of the sanity and vigour of his understanding.  By this time, however, the best-informed clergy in the neighbourhood of the metropolis are convinced that the